Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender
by mandassina
Summary: If you want to survive 5,000 years, you must keep moving forward even in the face of tragedy. Does Methos have the will defend his own head against an old flame just months after losing Alexa, or have millennia of loss and grief finally worn him down?
1. New Year's Revelations

**A/N: **In the _Highlander _universe, this story takes place about six weeks after "Revelation 6:8".

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter One  
><strong>__**New Year's Revelations**_

"You're gonna love this place," Methos said with uncharacteristic excitement as they moved with the jostling crowd toward the doors. "I've heard their house band is the phenomenal!"

"I always thought they had a pretty good band at Joe's," Duncan teased. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his friend so excited and knew he had to be coming here for more than the music.

"I never said they didn't," Methos replied softly, looking at him with hooded eyes, "but I've heard all their songs before."

Suddenly, everything slotted into place and Duncan just nodded. Joe's was a fine place for hanging out and having a few beers, but there were too many memories of Alexa and the pain of her loss was still too fresh for Methos to actually relax and enjoy himself there. His friend needed a loud, festive atmosphere without any reminders of the lover he had lost so soon after finding her, and a new bar opening the first weekend of the new year was just the place to find it. Wanting to lighten the mood, Macleod said, "As long as the drinks are on you, I'll follow you anywhere."

"Damn," Methos smirked, "and I was just about to tell you I'd forgotten my wallet."

"Cheapskate," Duncan snorted as he paid the cover charge for both of them.

Stepping into the barroom, both Immortals went on alert as the prickling sensation at the backs of their necks told them another of their kind was present. A quick glance around brought both of their gazes to focus on a nervous looking, long-limbed youth with a chubby, round, boyish face and shoulder-length curly brown hair. He acknowledged them with an ingratiating smile and a tilt of his head, and they each returned his greeting. Silently agreeing that they would not concern themselves with the youthful-looking Immortal unless he gave them a reason, they resumed their banter.

"I thought you were proud to be Scotch," Methos said mockingly.

"I am _Scottish_," Duncan corrected loudly as the band started their set with Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild". "There is a difference."

"Depends on who you ask," Methos told him, indicating a table near the dance floor.

"We have always been a generous people. It's just that back in the day, we were too poor to have much to offer thanks to the English taxes," Mac grumbled as he signaled the waitress for a couple of beers. "And besides, I don't remember asking you."

"No," Methos conceded, "but you did start the name calling."

Duncan glowered as he thought back over their conversation. Realizing Methos was right, he said, "I guess I did, this time. Sorry."

They broke off their conversation as the young Immortal took their beers from the waitress and delivered them to the table personally. "Michael Nichols," he introduced himself in a soft, youthful voice. "Friends call me Mike. I'm the manager." Setting a bottle in front of each of them, he said, "First drink's on the house, gentlemen, and you can call me Mike if I can have your word there will be no trouble tonight."

"I'm just here for the band, Mike," Methos said with a fake enthusiastic smile.

When the waiter looked to Duncan, the Highlander shrugged and told him, "I'm just having a few beers with my friend."

Satisfied, and looking more than a little relieved, the waiter nodded and said, "Enjoy the music, then."

They nodded and raised their bottles in appreciation, and the waiter left them.

"Apology accepted, by the way," Methos leaned across the table to shout at Duncan over the music. "One learns to expect a certain amount of immaturity when dealing with children."

"Imma . . . ?" Duncan stammered. "Children! Where do you get off . . . ?"

"_Relatively_ speaking," Methos mockingly soothed him.

Duncan huffed. At over 5,000 years old, Methos could find patches of dirt that were childish and immature, _relatively speaking. _Some of the Westman Islands off the southern coast of Iceland came to mind, even before the emergence of Surtsey back in the 1960s. Irked with both himself and Methos that he could not offer a clever comeback, he scowled at his friend only to shake his head in amusement when he realized that any reply he made would be lost on the older Immortal. His eyes were closed and his head was bobbing in time to the music.

Laughing with pleasure to see the often morose Ancient Immortal truly enjoying himself, Macleod took a swig of his beer and relaxed back in his seat to watch the crowd and listen to the band. As a general rule, his tastes ran more toward classical music, opera, and, since knowing Joe Dawson, blues, but he could appreciate true genius in any genre and couldn't help but respect the hard-rock lyricist who had coined the phrase _heavy metal_ or appreciate the driving rhythm that virtually possessed him as he caught himself nodding along with the beat just like his companion. It was no wonder a free spirit like Methos liked this type of music. When the band launched into the second chorus, Macleod looked over and was not surprised to see his friend singing along like more than half of the hundred or so other patrons in the bar.

_Like a true nature's child  
><em>_We were born, born to be wild!  
><em>_We can climb so high  
><em>_I never wanna die!_

_Born to be wild!  
><em>_Born to be wild!_

As the song ended, Mac joined the audience in applause, beside him, Methos whistled and shouted his appreciation. To Macleod, his friend's enthusiasm seemed a bit forced, but he understood what the elder Immortal was doing. He'd seen more than once what happened when one of their kind mourned a loss too deeply or too long. If the grieving Immortal didn't resolve to go on with his life, he either descended into madness slaughtering innocents until someone better and saner took his head; or he became indifferent, lackadaisical, apathetic, and lost his head simply because he did not care enough to fight his best fight to keep it.

Methos was forcing himself to act like he was having the time of his very long life, hoping that by _pretending_ he had found something to enjoy about living, he would eventually really find it again. If that's what it took to bring his friend back from his long months of grieving, Macleod was more than willing to support him. As the next song started with a few bars of a funky little melody, he cheered with the crowd, even though he had no idea what the song would be.

It turned out the band was playing "Who Are You?" by The Who, and Duncan had to laugh at the irony. Immortals, at least those who lived long enough to learn their way around a sword, lived so many lives, became so many people, it could be easy to lose oneself. It wasn't just clannish pride that made him introduce himself as Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod whenever he faced an opponent, it was a need to remind himself that, however many heads he had taken, he was no bloodthirsty, murdering lunatic but a good and proud man who only fought when he had to.

At the bridge, the band went quiet. The guitar solo started quietly, the musician seeming to exist in a bubble of music, just him and his guitar, the two of them so focused on creating their own world of sound that the audience and even the rest of the band became irrelevant. As the soloist plucked out a tune that was most certainly unique to this night, this crowd, and the guitar player's mood, Methos dropped a bombshell.

"Alexa and I were married."

Stunned, Duncan just stared at him. Before he could decide whether congratulations were appropriate considering the bride was already deceased, the guitar solo ended with great wind-milling gestures, thundering chords, and cheers and applause from the audience as the drummer banged away, and the lead singer wailed into the microphone, "Tell me who are youuuuuu?"

Then the band went into a quiet recitation of "Who are who are who are who are who are you?"

Mac hesitated, still unsure what to say, but he didn't need to say anything. Methos leaned in and told him, "First we had an ancient ceremony, one practiced by my people . . . my _first_ people. I gave her a necklace and anointed her with frankincense and then we made love. The next night we exchanged vows on the rim of the Grand Canyon, just the two of us."

Mac waited a moment, but Methos seemed to have finished talking for the time being. "Did it make you happy?" he finally asked.

Methos nodded. "Very happy."

"Then I am happy for you."

There was another round of teeth-rattling chords, and the lead singer went back to the main chorus. Methos turned away from him them, his eyes suspiciously bright. Even in the dim light at the edge of the dance floor, Mac could see his friend's lips moving along with the lyrics.

_I know there's a place you walked  
><em>_Where love falls from the trees.  
><em>_My heart is like a broken cup;  
><em>_I only feel right on my knees. _

_I spit out like a sewer hole  
><em>_Yet still receive your kiss.  
><em>_How can I measure up to anyone now  
><em>_After such a love as this?_

Suddenly, Macleod found it hard to look at his friend; it made something in his chest constrict. Methos had been married before, sixty-eight times, he claimed. He had loved before, too, and would probably do so again if he kept his head long enough. But he had also told Mac that Alexa was the first woman who had actually made him feel complete. He had even used the term _soul mate_ without irony or sarcasm. Duncan didn't know whether it was a miracle or a tragedy that Methos and Alexa had found each other when they did.

For the next several minutes, Macleod and Methos sat sharing a table and a bowl of pretzels, but each of them on their own. Methos was lost in the music most of the time, often closing his eyes and singing along or just sitting quietly, letting himself be swallowed up by the beat the bass line or a guitar solo, surfacing only to applaud or whistle his appreciation at the appropriate times. Mac was surprised to discover that he honestly enjoyed the raucous noise despite the worry that even his immortal hearing could be permanently damage by the volume. More shocking still, once he got past the ear-shattering, bone-jarring loudness of the music, he found that every single song had something in it that spoke to him personally.

"Wild Thing" brought his relationship with Amanda to mind. She was almost more trouble than she was worth, but as much as he sometimes dreaded having her darken his door, he was always happy when she showed up. "Back in Black" made him introspective, thinking of dark times in his own past like after the Battle of Culloden when rage and a thirst for vengeance drove him to do things he was ashamed of to this day. "The Boys Are Back in Town" reminded him of Fitzcairn and the trouble they would get into together. Certainly stealing the Stone of Scone with Amanda was one of their wildest adventures. It astounded Duncan that for the thirty-odd years that hard rock music had been around, he had never really taken the time to listen to any of the lyrics, and it made him feel every inch a snob.

During the quiet beginning of "Stairway to Heaven," Methos started to talk again.

"You should have seen Alexa in Venice!" he laughed. "We were going for a gondola ride – everywhere we went, we did the touristy things, riding camels out to the pyramids, visiting the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, whatever she wanted. Anyway, the gondolier was this big, monstrous . . . gorilla of a man, and he wanted a small fortune to take us out on the canal. I told Alexa it didn't matter, that I could pay whatever he was asking, but she wouldn't hear of it. 'No,' she said, 'I don't care how rich you are, you didn't get that way by overpaying, and every time you do, you make it that much harder for the next person to get a fair price!'

"Well, that was me told. So I just watched her have at this poor bastard in the boat." Methos shook his head and laughed again. "By the time she was done, I think _he_ would have paid _us_ to go out on the canal."

Duncan laughed with him. "I think that's one of the things Dawson really liked about her, you know?"

Methos frowned, not sure what he meant.

"She was . . . plucky. She could handle people and take care of herself," Mac explained. "If someone at the bar got fresh or rowdy, she could put them in their place. He didn't have to come to her rescue."

Methos sighed and smiled and picked at the label on his beer bottle. "No, she certainly didn't need rescuing," he agreed. Then his expression became bitter. "Just saving."

"You were there and you loved her," Mac said. "That was the best thing anyone could ever have done for her."

Methos swallowed heavily and nodded. "I know," he said as the electric instruments came in on _Ooooh, it makes me wonder._ "I just wish we'd had more time, you know?"

"I know," Mac agreed, "but being who and what you are, that would likely have been the case no matter how long you had together. Don't lose the joy of the good memories you created together in mourning all of the things you didn't get to do."

Methos laughed and sniffled slightly. "You know, she found out about me, about what I am," he said.

Duncan cocked an eyebrow, surprised by the revelation, and Methos nodded. "There was a statue of me at Olympia," he explained. "She took a photo of it, and when I met up with her in Athens after taking you to that healing spring, she saw me holding the picture, and realized that it wasn't some ancient ancestor."

Methos shook his head and wrapped both hands around his beer as if trying to steady himself. "I was terrified that she would hate me if she knew," he said. "Or that she would be hurt, thinking I had just picked her up as some diversion knowing she wouldn't require any real commitment. When I saw that she had figured it out, the tears started to fall, like I was some . . . stupid child, caught in the act of doing something he knew was bad, and I was afraid of the consequences. I started babbling at her, trying to explain, and do you know what she did?"

"Hmm?"

"She forgave me." Methos smiled and rubbed his hands over his face.

"For not telling her," Macleod assumed.

Methos shook his head. "No. Not just for that. For everything," he gasped, scrubbing away the tears again. "For being what I am. She understood right away that it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my choice any more than the cancer had been hers."

He laughed softly, fondly. "She was dying, right in front of me, every day, and she was pleased to know that I might live forever just so I could remember her. She was bloody amazing. Then she made me promise not to mourn her longer than I knew her."

Under the table, Mac counted off the months on his fingers. They'd left for their trip in November and Alexa had died in March. Then there had been that narrowly averted war between Immortals and the Watchers followed by the return of the Four Horsemen, and Macleod was only now realizing that Methos had been without her for nine months. He had already broken his promise.

"It took me 5000 years to find her, Macleod," Methos choked out. "And I only got five months with her. How is that fair?"

"It's not fair for you," Macleod said sympathetically, "but it was for her. Those last five months of her life, you made her happy, you showed her the world, you loved her like crazy, and you gave her everything she ever wanted, didn't you?"

Methos nodded and smiled. Alexa had told him as much more than once.

"You know, you can remember her without mourning her, and you can go on without forgetting her," Mac told him. "You just have to do it in your own time."

Methos looked up and gave him an unconvincing but determined smile. He took a deep breath and said, "That's why I'm here tonight. It's not exactly a New Year's Resolution, but tonight seemed as good a time as any to do something besides sit around brooding." He finished his beer in one long pull and signaled for two more, one for himself and one for Mac. "Uh, you _can_ cover this, right?" He shouted as the guitarist wound up a loud, wailing solo. "I really did forget my wallet."

_And as we wind on down the road  
><em>_Our shadows taller than our souls,  
><em>_There walks a lady we all know  
><em>_Who shines white light and wants to show  
><em>_How everything still turns to gold. _

_And if you listen very hard  
><em>_The tune will come to you at last,  
><em>_When all are one and one is all  
><em>_To be a rock and not to roll._

_And she's buying the stairway to heaven._

TBC


	2. What Is the Point of Getting Snockered?

**A/N:** I can't believe I forgot this in chapter one! Thanks to RoadrunnerGER for beta reading and constant encouragement. I'd never finish anything without you, or maybe I'd get done sooner without you giving me more plot bunnies. It's hard to tell, but I love you for it, nonetheless.

Also thanks to Lola Spears and FanLass for reviewing the first chapter. I hope to hear from you again.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender  
><strong>__**Chapter Two**_

_**What Is the Point of Getting Snockered?**_

The third time Macleod looked at his watch, his dance partner, Anna, asked in an amused voice, "Am I boring you?"

Duncan shook his head and looked chagrinned. "No, I'm just concerned about Adam. He's been gone a while."

"He's a grown man. Can't he can take care of himself?"

Under normal circumstances, Macleod would have said yes and thought nothing of it, but right now he wasn't so sure. Near the end of the set, he and Methos had felt the buzz that told them another, very powerful, Immortal was in the vicinity. Before they could get a look at the interloper, the band had taken a break, and two young women had asked to join them at their table. They had welcomed the ladies, Anna and Kerry, and while Methos had engaged them in some light banter, Duncan had sought out Mike under the pretense of getting a fresh bowl of pretzels. If the powerful Immortal was a frequent visitor, the young man might have recognized him just by the strength of the buzz. It wasn't always easy to do, but Duncan could tell Methos, Amanda, and Richie apart that way.

_"He is a she, and she owns this place," Mike had said. "She's my teacher, and she prefers to avoid trouble. You probably won't see her unless the crowd gets rowdy or somebody has a complaint about the food, the drinks, or the service."_

_"You might want to tell her it's a rude hostess who doesn't introduce herself to her guests," Mac had grumbled._

_"And she would tell me it's a fool who reveals herself to her enemies before it's time to fight," the young Immortal argued._

_"We are not her enemies," Duncan insisted, "and we could be her friends if she would let us."_

_"There can be only one," the Mike reminded him. "Sooner or later The Game makes enemies of us all._ _Do not disturb her and she will not trouble you, unless you find yourselves the last two."_

_Muttering to himself, Duncan went back to the table, fresh pretzels in hand. With a subtle shake of his head he informed Methos that he had gotten nothing useful from the manager. They'd talked a little more about inconsequential things, and then the girls had gone off to the bathroom together._

_Leaning in, Mac told Methos, "The Immortal we sensed is the owner of this place, a woman, and Mike's teacher. He says she doesn't want a fight, and I gathered from his answer that she is the suspicious type who thinks we're all destined to be enemies, sort of like you were when we met."_

_"Were? Still am, with strangers. You, I can trust, so long as I don't get on your bad side." _

_"And when did you decide that?"_

_"About six weeks ago," Methos said, "when you stopped Cassandra from taking my head." When Mac would have argued, Methos cut him off. "Say what you want, Highlander. It's a hell of a way to live, I know, always questioning people's motives, but it's the best way to keep your head."_

_"At least until you need a friend," Mac had told him._

_"I suppose you're right, but what happens in the end?" Methos had asked. "If it were just the two of us left, would you take my head to win The Prize?"_

_"Never," Macleod said. "Not so long as we are friends."_

_Methos_ _nodded, then with a crafty look, he asked, "And what would you do to keep me from taking yours?"_

_"It doesn't have to be like that," Duncan insisted with a sullen look._

_"What?" Methos smirked. "You have a crystal ball that shows the future?"_

_"I just think . . ."_

_"I know what you think, Macleod. We've had this conversation more than once," Methos interrupted. "I really hope you're right and that we can find a peaceful end to The Game, but none of us knows what the future holds. For all we know, the lot of us could go mad one day and turn on each other whether we mean to or not. In the meantime, it's just smart not to trust too many people or expose yourself when it's not necessary."_

_Anna and Kerry returned from the ladies' room before the discussion could continue and Mike came over to their table with a tray of drinks. "Compliments of the owner," he told them. Then giving Macleod a meaningful look, he added, "She apologizes that she doesn't have time to discuss the opportunity you mentioned tonight, but you're welcome to come back tomorrow afternoon to talk it over, if you like."_

_"Perhaps I will," Duncan agreed, with a small smile. "I'll call ahead if I do," he added, hoping the promise to announce his arrival would make the powerful woman less suspicious_

_The waiter bowed slightly at the waist and left._

_"Free drinks from the owner," Kerry said. "I'm impressed."_

_"Don't be," Methos told her. "I could have gotten the same result if I had been the one offering to invest in this place."_

_Duncan_ _frowned and Methos shrugged. It was as good a lie as any to cover their secret dealings. Grinning, Macleod said, "Then perhaps you should have made the offer. I'll bet it would be cheaper than paying your tab."_

_Methos_ _downed half his beer in one go. "Don't let my friend fool you, ladies. I'm not really a habitual drunk. He's just a lightweight, and as long as he's paying, I intend to get thoroughly snockered."_

_They all shared a laugh at Macleod's expense and then resumed talking of inconsequential things. Kerry was a doctoral student in Slavic studies at the local university and Anna was working on an MBA in international business and was off to Paris, of all places, for an internship in September. Macleod gave her Maurice's name and address and told her that for the price of a good bottle of wine she would have a native Parisian tour guide, a personal chef, and a friend for life in the pleasant little man._

_Then the band returned to the stage and the keyboardist played a series of chords. Methos finished off his beer in one long pull and got to his feet. "Look," he said, turning to Kelly. "I'm not going to ask for your phone number, and I wouldn't call you if you gave it to me. I probably won't even remember your name tomorrow, because, really, what is the point of getting snockered if you can't forget every foolish thing you've done? By the end of the evening, I fully expect Macleod to have to pour me into his car; but 'Hungry Heart' is one of my favorite songs. As long as you don't mind that I am an arrogant, drunken bastard, I would love to dance to it while I'm still sober enough to stand up." He gave her his best charming smile, extended his hand, and asked, "What do you say?"_

_Kelly needed a moment to figure out if she had just been insulted, then deciding she had not, she nodded and took Methos's hand. They left the table leaving behind a grinning Duncan and a flabbergasted Anna._

That had been nearly half an hour ago. Methos had danced to two songs with Kelly. Then the band had played a slow, sad song lamenting a doomed relationship that asked over and over "Who wants to live forever?" and Methos had taken off for the restrooms. Thinking the lyrics had struck a nerve, Mac had given him plenty of time to privately deal with his grief over Alexa. Not wanting Kelly to feel slighted, he'd danced a couple of songs with her while they waited, but Methos should have been able to compose himself enough by now to at least come back and say he was ready to leave.

"Duncan?" Anna called his name, demanding his attention again, "Adam's probably just puking up all the beer he's guzzled, but if you really need to go check on him, do it. I'd rather have you put your mind at ease than check your watch every three minutes like you can't wait to get away from me."

Macleod gave her a grateful smile and ushered her over to the table to sit with Kelly. "Thank you for understanding," he said. "I'll be right back."

As the band exhorted him to 'Come on, feel the noise,' Macleod wove his way through the crowd. Typically, there was a line at the ladies' room, but none at the men's. He'd once made the mistake of teasing Tessa that the world would have adequate facilities for women if they just wouldn't travel in pairs and packs, and he still shuddered at the scathing look she had given him as he slipped past the waiting women on his way to the men's room.

There was one guy at the urinal just finishing his business as Duncan entered. The Highlander noticed with some distaste that he zipped up and left without washing his hands. Methos's presence was quite strong, so Mac knew he couldn't be far away. Walking down the line of stalls, he looked for feet but saw none. Feeling foolish and knowing better than to use his friend's real name, he called quietly, "Adam?" Getting no answer, he gently pushed the door to each stall open, but his friend was not to be found.

More worried than ever, Macleod left the restroom. He could still feel Methos nearby, and the buzz was leading him out the back door of the club. He spotted his friend not twenty feet away, just beyond the bar's Dumpster, on all fours, next to a railing intended to prevent people from stumbling into a stairwell that led to a cellar door, apparently retching; and he felt momentarily relieved to know Anna had been right. Then he saw Methos reach up, scrabbling to take hold of the railing and pull himself to his feet.

Something was wrong with the way Methos was moving. He hadn't been that drunk when he'd left the dance floor. Hurrying to his friend's side, he helped him up asking, "What's wrong?"

"Pois'n," Methos slurred. "M'cleod, 'hind yu!"

As Macleod turned, just on the edge of his vision, he saw a blurry shadow flying at his face. Then the shadow connected very solidly with the side of his head and Macleod crumpled to his knees, taking his friend with him. Another blow landed hard on the back of his head, and he went sprawling on the ground in the puddle of vomit beside Methos. As everything faded to black, he realized that, between his concern for Methos and the buzz he was feeling from his friend and from the other powerful Immortal they hadn't seen, he hadn't felt Mike lying in wait for him in the dark corner where the Dumpster was pushed against the wall.

His last thought was that he couldn't believe this was how he would lose his head.

TBC

Please remember, reviews feed the muse.


	3. Plaything

**A/N: **Since I forgot to mention it in the first two chapters, this story is sixteen chapters long. I marked it complete so readers know they won't be left hanging. I will update regularly.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Three  
><strong>__**Plaything**_

When Methos revived, it was dark. Then he tried to blink and realized that maybe it wasn't dark after all, but he was blindfolded, so he couldn't tell. He sighed at his predicament, and his nose and mouth were filled with the stench of a moldering old rag, which he realized had been used to gag him at about the same time that he started coughing and choking. The coughing and choking started him swaying, which was how he discovered that his ribs and shoulders burned like fire and his wrists were raw from the cuffs that held him suspended from something above his head with the balls of his bare feet barely grazing the floor. The situation, particularly the pain, reminded him a bit of the time when, serving as a Roman slave under the name of Remus, he offended his master's wife by refusing her advances and was crucified when she cried rape to save face.

He moaned, and heard a grunt that sounded like Macleod. He could feel the Highlander's presence and was relieved to know that his friend still had his head. The way he had been strung up had left him hurting and helpless, and he didn't really expect that Mac had fared any better; but whoever had done this wanted more than just their heads, that much was clear. If it was personal, there was a chance that their captor had been a little kinder to whichever of them was the innocent bystander, and given his own discomfort, Methos could only hope the innocent bystander was Mac.

The gag had been pulled tight between teeth, so tight it had forced a bit of flesh between his molars on either side and he tasted blood at the corners of his mouth. There was no way he was getting that rag out from between his teeth, but if he spoke slowly and carefully, he could probably still make himself understood.

"Mac?" he called, and got a grunt in reply. "Can gyou hee anyfing?"

"Nuh."

"I'm bline-foe-ded. You?"

"Yeh."

Methos mentally cursed, but carefully refrained from saying it aloud. Their situation was dire enough without confusing themselves with needless chatter.

"I'm pied." He sighed and tried again, very carefully. "I'm. Tied. Hang-ging fum my whisks. You?"

"On my nyees," Mac said slowly. "Wound a pull. Whisks an anguhs together behind me."

"Shit!" Methos cursed, not meaning to say it aloud. Then, appreciating the irony of his profanity coming out loud and clear despite the gag, he gave a small huff of laughter. "Can you geh the ro'es loopf?"

"Nah, ro'es," Macleod told him. "Cupfs."

"Shit."

"Yeh."

There was no telling which of them was worse off. Hanging by his wrists as he was, Methos could feel muscles and ligaments stretching and straining through his arms, shoulders, back and ribs. Even if he were freed and allowed to fight for his life, he would have a hard time lifting a sword right now. On his knees on the concrete floor and hogtied around a pole, Macleod might be able to raise his sword if given the chance to defend himself, but he probably wouldn't be capable of the footwork necessary to prevail in a serious fight.

Since he couldn't think of anyone both he and Macleod had pissed off that much, Methos had to assume they had either fallen prey to a sociopath who liked to torture and terrorize his or her victims before taking their heads, or one of them had made an enemy who planned to somehow use the other against him. Neither prospect was a pleasant one, and, as much as he respected Macleod, he could neither convince himself that the Highlander would die to save him nor commit himself to trading his life for his friend's.

He was racking his brain to find a solution that would let them both live, when the buzz of the powerful immortal from the bar made his skin prickle.

"Show time," he heard Macleod mutter through the gag.

"No heroichs, Highl'nder," he warned. The only thing worse than dying would be living with the knowledge that he had doubted his friend's willingness to die in his stead.

A few moments later, a door slammed open, startling Methos and making him jump, which sent the fire racing through his arms and back again. He heard the door bang closed and then the thump of hard-soled boots on the concrete floor approached, making his bare toes feel very vulnerable. The noise stopped somewhere in Macleod's vicinity, and then everything went quiet.

The silence only lasted a minute or two, but it seemed like forever to Methos. As it stretched to infinity, his straining ears attuned themselves to the surroundings. First, he was able to hear music blaring somewhere over head, and reasoned that they were in either the basement or a secret sub-basement of the bar. As he listened harder, the music faded into the background and he could hear the sharp hiss of air as Macleod struggled to control his breathing and reign in his fear. Eventually, he was able to pick out the subtle whisper of cloth on cloth as their mysterious captor shifted position from time to time.

So attuned was Methos to the tiniest sound that might tell him what was coming next that the singing of a sword when it was pulled from its scabbard made his ears ring as if he'd had his head inside a church bell when it chimed. He heard Macleod gasp in fright and the blade whistling through the air, and before he knew it, he was screaming into the gag, "No! No! Nah him! Me!"

There was a clink and an immediate thud as the blade struck something solid, a grunt from Macleod, and another ominous thud, and Methos sobbed unashamedly, the tears soaking his blindfold. Then Macleod gave an agonized groan, and Methos whimpered in relief. There was a quiet jingle, and a soft click followed a few moments later by the sound of handcuffs ratcheting shut. Mac gave another grunt and then a long groan. Methos heard some shuffling, and then Mike, the young Immortal who managed the bar, asked, "Is that better?"

"Uh-huh," came the muffled grunt.

Methos sagged against his bonds, silently thanking any gods that might exist for preserving his friend's life. Mac gave another small grunt, but Methos could not tell what was happening. Things again went quiet, but only briefly this time. Then the tapping of boots brought the mysterious Immortal over to him.

She, and Methos knew it was a she just from the scent she was wearing, stood so close that he could feel the warmth of her body next to him and the and the stir of her breath on his cheek. Remembering that he had not heard the blade of her sword sliding back into the scabbard, he began to shake. He was afraid to die. After some five millennia, living had gotten to be a tough habit to break. Blindfolded, barefoot, gagged, and swinging from his wrists, he had every right to tremble at the prospect of such an ignominious death, he might even weep, though he would try not to; but he'd be damned if he'd beg. If she removed the gag, he would demand a sword, even knowing he couldn't lift it, and a chance to fight, knowing he would lose, before he begged for his life.

But fighting was not on the mysterious woman's agenda, at least not yet.

Methos shivered when the cold tip of the sword came to rest in the notch behind his right ear and whimpered softly as it trailed a stinging line, as fine as a paper cut, along the length of his jaw to the tip of his chin and then down his throat and over his Adam's apple. When she reached the collar of his shirt, he felt the blade pivot against his skin and heard the fabric give as she sliced the garment open right down to the waist of his jeans. Judging by the long, fine cut that ran the length of his torso, he knew it was a skilled hand that wielded the sword. If he were given the chance to defend himself, he'd be in for the fight of his very long life.

Then the blade was against his skin again, starting at his breastbone, it carved another long, thin cut across his chest. When the cold metal made its burning line across his left nipple, he moaned and writhed in response, because, no matter how frightened he was or how much pain he was in, he was still sensitive there. That barest hint of pleasure in the midst of his horror was somehow appalling to him, and he shuddered. The wielder of the blade was indifferent to his dismay; she just continued slicing over his pectoral muscle, part of his deltoid, and then the length of his bicep to the inside of his elbow, and finally, the sensitive underside of his forearm until she had cut through the cuff of his shirt and his left sleeve fell away.

Knowing what was coming did nothing to make the next cut less terrifying. If anything, it was perhaps _more_ intense, and this time, when the blade grazed over the sensitive bud on his chest, his hips bucked involuntarily. The motion set him swaying from his bound wrists, which was painful, but what Methos really noticed was that his tormentor had done nothing to stop his swinging and still the slice she made along his right arm remained smooth and shallow. She was even better than he had initially thought, at least at the fine work, and some distant corner of his mind wondered whether she was preparing to flay him alive, or already pretending to.

He heard the last threads of the right cuff of his shirt give way to her blade. The cloth fell away, and there he stood, naked to the waist. He heard the thump of her boots as she circled around behind him, and then he felt the point of her sword again, this time, at the nape of his neck. Goosebumps raised on the flesh of his back as she traced one more shallow cut down the length of his spine and he was helpless to resist the tremors that moved through him.

She hadn't really hurt him yet, and that freaked Methos out more than anything. The cuts were painful, yes, but literally no worse than what he might get turning the page of a book, just longer. In fact, with his Immortal healing, the first of them were gone already.

She hadn't _meant_ to harm him, yet, he realized. She was just toying with him, reminding him that she could do _so_ much worse than taking his head outright.

Once more the sword rested at the nape of his neck. This time, it sliced upward, through the knot that held the gag in place, and then the sword rattled back into its scabbard. Methos kept still, listening to the thump of boots as the mystery woman circled back around in front of him. He could have easily pushed the gag out with his tongue now, but he didn't. She obviously had a plan for him, and he didn't want to do anything to piss her off just yet. The longer things went on, the more comfortable she got with her new toy, the more likely she was to make a mistake that would give him the chance to take her head before she got his.

He could only hope he had the strength to endure until he could find a way out of this.

TBC

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	4. The Stuff of Legend

I hate how the 'share' crap at the top pushes everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Four  
><strong>__**The Stuff of Legend**_

Methos could again feel the heat of the woman's body and her warm, moist breath across his face as she stood before him. Long nails lightly scraped his cheek as the gag was pulled away. He winced as the rough cloth pulled at the raw flesh at the corners of his mouth. He heard and felt the woman back away a couple of steps.

"Wh-who are you?" he rasped, surprised by how rough his voice was.

He heard the rustle of clothing and the whoosh of air in time to tense, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the slap that struck his cheek with such force that his neck cracked and the entire left side of his face exploded in pain before going Novocain numb. With his tongue, he checked for loose teeth and tasted fresh blood where his molars had cut the inside of his cheek top and bottom. He waited until he stopped swaying in his bonds so that he could regain his tenuous balance on the balls of his feet.

"What do you want?" he demanded, forcing his voice to be firm rather than fearful.

This time, a vicious backhand caught him across the other cheek, sending a knife of sharp pain through his face as the stone of a large ring split the skin open right where it was thinnest over the cheekbone.

"Fuck, woman!" he shouted in anger as he felt the blood running down his cheek.

A hard uppercut snapped his head back and made him see stars as it staggered him backwards. He scrabbled with his toes to find purchase on the smooth cement floor and fought not to reveal how much pain he was feeling from the strain on his wrists, arms, and shoulders.

Finally regaining his equilibrium, he growled, "Give me a sword, and . . ."

A blow to the solar plexus knocked the rest of the air from his lungs and set him swinging in his bonds like a pendulum as he reflexively curled into a ball, gasping and sobbing for breath. Tears of anguish soaked the blindfold as the cuffs bit cruelly into his wrists and muscles and joints stretched and strained almost to the point of tearing, but all he could do for the moment was hang there, struggling to breathe. Seconds passed like hours until the agony of oxygen-starved lungs was finally less than the pain of over-stretched limbs, and slowly, he lowered his feet to the floor.

This time, he just stood there, waiting. He didn't think he could take another hit like that so soon. It was all he could do to keep himself steady, and he was certain that if his bonds were cut right then, he would collapse on the floor in a heap. When heard the soft click of a knife being pulled from its sheath, a lump of cold lead settled in his stomach. One did not take heads with a knife. She intended to torture him some more.

He felt the heat of her body on his bare skin as she moved into his space once again. He didn't flinch or make a sound. Stoically, he waited, searching for that core of strength that would let him take whatever came next. Time seemed to stretch to infinity as he stood there, oblivious to everything except the burning pain in his arms and back, which he could not ignore completely, and the malevolent presence beside him, on which he was keenly focused because her movement would be the only warning he would have before her next action.

She leaned closer. He felt the air stir and tensed involuntarily. Her breath was warm on his cheek again, and then, defying all his expectations, she whispered softly in his ear.

_"Good boy, Methos. You're still a quick study, aren't you?" _she praised him.

He gasped and trembled as she raked her nails lightly down his ribs, teasing and making his skin tingle.

_"I'm glad to see the years haven't addled your mind," _she hissed in his ear. _"I promise you'll have your chance to speak before I take your head, but only when I am ready to hear you."_

Her tongue laved his right ear, tracing the ridges before darting into the canal, and he whimpered, helpless to resist responding. He caught himself panting in anticipation as she licked and kissed and nipped her way across his cheek. When her lips found his, he tried to turn away, but the flat of her knife's blade against his cheek stopped him. When her tongue sought entrance, he clenched his teeth until the knife traced its way down his midline to rest against his scrotum, the tip of it penetrating the heavy fabric of his jeans and just barely piercing the skin.

She ravaged his mouth, locating all of his hot spots, and stealing his breath. Beneath the metallic tang of blood, his own blood, he realized, which she had licked from his wounded cheek, he tasted strong red wine and dark chocolate. When she found the spot on the roof of his mouth that made him moan, his resistance collapsed. He relaxed into the kiss and his arms twitched in his bonds with the impulse to take her in his embrace.

His intellect told him that this woman knew his body intimately and that he should be searching his memories for a former Immortal lover who would be angry enough to kill him or kinky enough to torture and terrorize him and Macleod as part of a seduction scene, but his body shouted his intellect down, screaming, _More! More! More!_

Then he really did scream, in pain, as she bit a hole through his lower lip. Blood streamed down his chin and dripped onto his chest making him sticky, and it flooded his mouth and made him retch. He fought the urge to vomit knowing the pain that would send through his strained ribs and back, and instead spat each time his mouth filled, at first spraying through the hole her teeth had made until the wound closed. Ultimately, it was the copious bleeding that saved him another beating because he wasn't able to curse her before he had remembered that he had been told to wait for her permission to speak.

He heard the knife snick back into its sheath and turned his head in her direction. Gathering a mouthful of blood and saliva, he spat at her as hard as he could. His ears told him she didn't even flinch, and he could only assume he had missed the mark. Then he heard her boots thumping across the floor as she approached Macleod again.

When Macleod heard the woman draw her sword he had resigned himself to an immediate death. He was surprised how quickly peace came over him, and deeply touched when he heard Methos offering himself instead. _So much for no heroics, _he thought in amusement, grateful that his last moment could lift his doomed spirit. Then the unexpected happened, and the chain that held his wrists bound to his feet broke apart. He heard Methos sobbing and wanted to do something to assure him that he was alive, but he was still too much in shock to make a sound. His relief and his friend's grief were both short-lived, though, for without the chain between his extremities to keep him bent backward, Macleod overbalanced and fell forward. His wrists, still cuffed around the pole at his back, caught his fall, and he moaned in pain at the strain on his shoulders and the bruising pressure on his arms.

Mike had then released his ankles and helped him to reposition himself so he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out before him, leaning back, hands still cuffed around the pole. His feet were chained again, and the young man had asked him if he was more comfortable. He indicated that he was, and then his blindfold was cut away.

He was still blinking against the light when the powerful female Immortal stalked slowly past him on her way to Methos. Macleod was sure he would have remembered a six-foot-tall, Immortal woman with a mane of red hair that fell past her hips if she had ever crossed his path, so he had to assume she either had a history with Methos or she was a barking mad sociopath who would get off on torturing them both before she finally took their heads.

All Duncan could do was watch as the woman stripped his friend with her sword, toying with him as a cat would do a mouse. As disgusted as he was by the way she tormented the helpless man, Macleod could not help but admire her skill with the long, heavy steel sword modeled on the ancient Celtic style. Methos was trembling and writhing in pain, but her cuts were consistently smooth, shallow, narrow, and delicate. It took a steady hand to do that in the best of circumstances, and having a subject moving and swaying under one's blade was certainly not the best of circumstances.

Once she had Methos stripped to the waist, the fiery-haired woman made one more long cut down the center of his back, just to show how strong she was to still maintain such precise control after holding the heavy blade so long, or just to hurt the other Immortal, or just for the hell of it, Mac wasn't sure. Finally, she cut the gag loose and with surprising gentleness, pulled it from Methos's mouth. Then, to Mac's horror, she took a fighting stance.

Before Duncan could decide whether warning his friend would make things better by preparing him for the beating he was about to receive or make things worse by giving the woman an excuse to hurt him more, Methos had asked her to identify herself and got viciously smacked for it. She only struck him three more times before he stopped talking, but it was as brutal a beating as Macleod had ever seen, and it only got worse from there.

Now that she was done molesting his friend, the woman turned to Macleod again. The first thing he noticed about her when she was finally facing him was the intensity of her expression. With her shining, emerald green eyes fixed on him in a predatory stare, she already made him feel naked without removing so much as a stitch of his clothing and he could sense that she was very old and very powerful. As she stalked across the room toward him, he noticed the bright red spray of blood, Methos's blood, across her white cashmere sweater. It would have been a pretty pattern, had he not known what it was. As things stood now, it was a beacon calling him to stop this madwoman by any means necessary before she did some kind of damage that would not heal.

As she approached and drew her knife, Mac lifted his chin defiantly. The blade was sharp, but it was small. She did not mean to take his head, yet. She wanted only make him cower in fear, and he would not be cowed. When he expected to be stripped and to have lines traced on his skin as she had done to Methos, she surprised him by cutting the gag and gently removing it from his mouth.

"I am Duncan Macleod . . ." he dared to speak, even after what he had just witnessed, hoping to keep her attention on him a while and give his friend time to recover.

Once again she caught him by surprise. "Of the Clan Macleod," she interrupted in a sultry voice even as she managed to sound bored. "Yes, I know who you are, Highlander; your reputation precedes you. But I was you more than a thousand years before you were you, so do not expect me to be impressed."

Puzzled by her words, he said, "Well, if my name means so little to you, maybe you'd prefer to meet my sword."

She rolled her eyes and chuckled, a low, soft bubbling sound in her throat. "Nay, Macleod, my fight is not with you today. You keep that great melon that sits atop your neck a while longer," she said in a lilting tone that seemed both deeply familiar and utterly foreign to him. "Let it ripen and grow something worth having inside it. Then, if we both still walk this earth in another thousand years, perhaps I will come back for it."

Macleod was sure he'd never met this woman, but he felt like he should still know her. The cadence of her speech and the imagery that she used felt like home to him, but her accent wasn't Scottish. The age and energy she exuded spoke of something deep and ancient, far older than the mere words she uttered, something that went back to a time when real power resided in an individual and magic was more than just a party trick.

"I don't think you could take it in a fight, _woman_." Macleod put a derisive emphasis on the last word, hoping to strike a nerve, and nearly had more success that he wanted. Faster than his eyes could follow, she threw the knife left-handed with deadly accuracy, sticking it an inch deep in the pole just above his head, even while drawing her sword with her right hand. The blade came whistling down and for a split second, Mac feared he had miscalculated. Then the edge of the sword rested lightly on his neck.

"You'd best mind your manners, whelp! I know enough of Highland women to know your _màthair_ (1) would take the hide off your backside for speaking to any woman with such disrespect," she warned him.

When Duncan's eyes popped in surprise, she gave him a smug grin. "_O, seadh, Dhonnchaidh Macleoid, t__ha mi a' bruidhinn__ Gàidhlig_, _'n' Ah spaek a wee bit o braid Scots, tae_, though I haven't much used either since Longshanks set Toom Tabard on the throne. I knew what was coming after that, and I'd already seen enough of war to last me ten thousand lifetimes." (2)

Macleod nodded, carefully because the sword was still against his neck. That explained why she seemed so familiar. She'd lived in Scotland over three hundred years before he was born and left when the Wars of Independence began.

"So, you ran like a frightened rabbit," he said. She hadn't taken his head yet, and he doubted she would take it now.

She drew the sword across his throat, making a thin, stinging slice in the skin. "Careful Macleod," she warned him. "Just because I don't want to hurt you doesn't mean I won't do it to teach you a lesson, and just because I don't want your head doesn't mean I won't take it if you piss me off."

Lowering her sword and looking toward Methos, she told him, "You're only alive now because I think this _gàrderch_ (3) has duped you as he once did me. If I believed you had allied yourself with him knowing his true nature, I would have taken your head first thing just to keep you out of the way while I dealt with him."

Macleod had not ducked from her knife when she threw it. He would not be frightened into silence by her words. She had a story to tell and she needed an audience. "All of our kind are bastards," he said. "So I can't hold that against him." When the woman looked at him curiously, he shrugged. "I don't speak your language," he assured her, "but some words sound the same in many tongues."

The woman glared at Methos for a moment and then turned her gaze back to Duncan. "What do you really know about him?" she asked.

Mac decided to stick with current events. Like most Immortals, Methos had gone by a number of names and done many things, not all of them good. If this woman did not know his friend's true name, telling her would only endanger him more. If she already knew who Methos was, she would understand why he kept his identity such a closely guarded secret and would not be surprised if Macleod didn't know his true name.

"He has been Adam Pierson for as long as I have known him," Macleod replied evenly. "I know him well enough to know that he's my friend, and that's all I need to know about him."

The woman laughed. "Adam, eh?" She called across the room to Methos, "The first man. Are you really that arrogant, or is it just that the irony amuses you?" Turning back to Macleod, she said, "I met him as Lucius Juventius Quietus, _vicarius_ to a sniveling, greedy Roman administrator, sort of a liaison, if you will, between the governor and his local underling. I learned to trust him as Remus, a former slave, sympathetic to our cause. I loved him as Methos, the oldest of our kind, a man who could understand my loss when others could not. And for two thousand years now, I have cursed his name as Death for betraying my people and costing so many of their lives. (4)"

When the woman spoke of betrayal, Macleod saw Methos hang his head and knew, whether it was intentional or accidental, whether he had set her up or just got caught in a situation where he couldn't help her, Methos had, at least in part, been responsible, if not guilty, for the crime of which she was accusing him. Mac also knew that he didn't really care, at least not now. He'd all too recently learned of the terrible things his friend had done in the past as the Fourth Horseman, and after a lot of sleepless nights and a couple of long talks on Holy Ground, he'd finally accepted that the Methos he knew now was no more Death than he, himself, was the murdering, mad Scott who had hunted down and slain English officers in front of their wives and children after Culloden. He didn't know enough of this story to judge his friend, and he didn't know the woman at all.

"That man is Adam Pierson," Macleod insisted. "He is one of us, so I am sure his story is long and there are parts he has not shared with me. Methos is a myth. He's a story that we tell ourselves on nights when we can't sleep for fear of being caught off guard in the hopes that if one man can be that lucky for that long, then maybe we can, too. If he ever existed, he's been swallowed by history. What I would like to know, is who might you be?"

The flame-haired woman stared at Methos in stony silence for a long time. Macleod had nearly given up on getting an answer when she finally said, "If that traitorous piece of _triufais_ (5) is nothing but a myth, Highlander, then surely I am the stuff of legend."

TBC

(1) _"__**Màthair"**_ is "mother" in Scottish Gaelic, Duncan's native tongue.

(2) The woman says, **"Oh, yes, Duncan Macleod, I speak Scottish Gaelic,"** (in Scottish Gaelic) **"And a little bit of broad Scots, too"** (lowland Scots, a Germanic language spoken in Southern Scotland). **Longshanks** was King Edward I of England. Born, 17 June 1239. He became King at the death of Henry III, 16 November 1272, but wasn't crowned until he returned from his crusade to the Holy Land on 19 August 1274. Died, 7 July 1307. **Toom** **Tabard** is literally "empty shirt". John Balliol, King of Scots from 1292 to 1296 was named King of Scotland by Longshanks who had been asked by the Scottish nobles to settle the succession dispute known as the Great Cause which arose when Scottish King Alexander III died with no immediate heir and his granddaughter, Margaret, the Maid of Norway, fell ill and died on her voyage from Norway to Scotland. Edward treated Scotland as a vassal state and humiliated and undermined John Balliol until his nobles, fed up with their weak king, appointed a council of twelve who formed the Auld Alliance, a treaty of mutual assistance, with France. In retaliation, Edward invaded Scotland, the Scots were defeated at Dunbar, and John Balliol abdicated less than four years after his coronation. He died in November of 1314 at his family's chateau in France.

(3) _"__**Gàrderch"**_ is "bastard" in the mystery woman's native tongue.

(4) **Lucius** means "light", as in the light of knowledge. A cut scene from the episode "Comes a Horseman" has Methos telling Kronos that he wants to be a scholar. **Juventius** means "youthful", for as an Immortal, he will always be youthful. **Quietus** means, among other things, "quiet", "calm", and "neutral", which I think Methos often tries to be, but with Macleod as a conscience, he can't help but take sides and care about how things turn out. It also means "death", a fitting reflection of his Horsemen association. A _**"vicarius" **_is a deputy to a Roman official. **Remus** is documented in both _The Watcher Chronicles_ CD and in the novel _Zealot_. **Death** was the rider on the pale horse in the Book of Revelation in the Bible and the role Methos played in the Horsemen.

(5) _"__**Triufais"**_means "filth" in the mystery woman's native tongue.

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	5. Legend Revealed

I hate the way all that share stuff moves everything to the left, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Five  
><strong>__**Legend Revealed**_

"A legend in your own mind, you mean?" Macleod dared to mock her, more certain than ever that she wanted him to hear her story so she could convince him Methos was evil and so that he would condone her murdering his friend. Over her shoulder, he saw Methos smirk and shake with suppressed laughter then grimace in pain, and he could only assume his friend had similar thoughts. "Won't you just tell me your name?" he asked.

She turned and smiled at him, somehow managing to look both sad and menacing in the same expression. "You would know it already, if not for him," she said, jerking her head in Methos's direction. "Does this sound familiar? '…conquer or die. This is a woman's resolve; as for men, they may live and be slaves.'"

"I have known many a highland warrior woman," Macleod replied. "Any number of them could have filled their husbands' ears with such words before battle. I'm sorry, but to any Scot, such fiery speech would only make you familiar, not memorable."

"And how about this?" she asked. "'In stature she was very tall, in appearance most terrifying, in the glance of her eye most fierce, and her voice was harsh; a great mass of the tawniest hair fell to her hips; around her neck was a large golden torque; and she wore a tunic of diverse colors over which a thick mantle was fastened with a brooch.'"

"It isn't hard to guess that it's meant to be a description of you at some time in your past," Macleod told her, "but it still doesn't tell me your name."

"Thanks to him, my name and my people were – How did you put it? – swallowed by history," the woman said. Then she stalked over to Methos where he was hanging limp in his bonds. Resting the point of her sword beneath his chin, she pushed up so he had to lift his head. "Isn't that right, Methos?"

Methos was in abject misery. The cuts on his body, the injuries from the beating he had taken, and the wound from that brutal kiss had healed, but he was still sticky with his own blood, and his skin itched where the congealing fluid contracted and pulled against fine hairs. His wrists, arms, shoulders, back and ribs were still in agony, too, because, even being Immortal, he needed rest in order to heal, and he hadn't been given any reprieve from dangling by his wrists.

Added to that, his throat, chest, and ribs ached with suppressed laughter. He had recognized his old lover from the moment she spoke by her deep, sultry voice, and her verbal sparring with Macleod would have put him into hysterics in other circumstances. It was hard to imagine anyone with the guts to call the Highlander a whelp, and hearing her refer to his head as a great melon was almost his undoing. Macleod's comment about her being a legend in her own mind nearly broke him, except that he remembered she was angry with him, and not without reason.

He was certain that if they all survived this encounter, she and Macleod would become fast friends, even if they couldn't stand each other. The two warriors were so much alike that they would each find a kindred spirit in the other. Neither of them would attack the other without cause, so Methos just had to convince her not to take his head before she and Macleod had a chance to get to know one another. If he failed, he knew the Highlander would go after her. He didn't know who would win that fight, and he wouldn't be around to find out.

Then her sword was under his chin, forcing him to lift his head. "Isn't that right, Methos?" she asked.

He hesitated, afraid to answer because he had tuned out at some point when she'd been quoting the Roman historians. It was nothing he hadn't read before, and having lived through it, he wasn't interested in what a couple of writers working decades or centuries after the fact had to say about it.

The sword dropped, again slicing a thin line down his chest, and she touched his face tenderly. He flinched, and though she caressed his cheek gently, he felt like she was only measuring him up for another devastating blow.

"Methos, do you remember me?" Her question was almost plaintive.

"I knew you from the moment I heard your voice, Boudicca," he said, making his tone warm and affectionate. "It's a pity the Romans didn't have a word for sexy."

She snorted a laugh. "Dio wrote in Greek, not Latin, you dolt," she said, patting him on the cheek hard enough to sting. "He was also a propagandist, not an historian, because glorifying Rome is what kept him in favor with Emperors and citizens alike. He'd debase and denigrate his own mother if it got him appointed Governor of one of the provinces."

"Tacitus was kinder to you," Methos told her.

"Aye, but the man couldn't count," she said. "How could we lose eighty thousand when we had not more than fifty in our army?"

There was no way to answer that question without incriminating himself, so Methos held his tongue. Boudicca's army should have crushed the Romans, but instead they were annihilated, literally and figuratively. More than forty thousand of the ancient Iceni and Trinovantes were killed in action at the Battle of Watling Street, another five thousand died of their wounds sometime after the battle, and in the months following the uprising, Suetonius routed out and cut down the last remaining warriors. Most of those who remained – old men and women, mothers with young children, and those who were too infirm to fight – fled to the surrounding tribes or died of exposure. The Catuvellauni, Coritani, and Dobunni had not committed as many warriors to the cause and so were able to take them in as servants and field hands, or turn them over to the Romans to curry favor with the current regime. Within one generation, the Iceni and Trinovantes had been obliterated as a culture, as a bloodline, and as a people, and history promptly forgot about them.

Boudicca finally pulled his blindfold off, and he stood there blinking in the dim light. When he could finally look at her, the hard, cold glare she gave him told him he had been right not to answer. Her rage and pain had been festering for two thousand years, and now he stood before her, a convenient and appropriate target for all of it. He was helpless to say anything to mollify her. The best he could hope was that she would give him a sword and a chance to fight.

"What's wrong?" Boudicca asked tauntingly. "Cat got the fox's tongue?"

"What do you want me to say?" he rasped.

She walked a slow circle around him, dragging the broad edge of the sword point over his ribs, scraping the skin this time, rather than cutting it. Finally, she stood before him again and leaned in so close that he could feel her breath on his face.

"It. Doesn't. Matter," she hissed.

Frustrated, he demanded, "Then why am I here?"

For a long moment, she just stared into his eyes. He held her gaze as long as he could, but eventually he had to blink. In that fraction of a second, she head-butted him hard, right on the bridge of the nose, breaking the bones in the center of his face.

"Fuck!" he cried aloud as tears flooded his eyes and blood poured from his nose forcing him to breathe through his mouth. When he would have leaned forward to let the blood drip onto the floor instead of running down his upper lip and spilling into his mouth, she placed her sword point under his chin, forcing him to face her.

"You are here, Methos, because I want you to suffer as I did," she told him. "But before I punish you, you must confess. Isn't that how the law works? First a confession and then sentence is passed. So please, tell your friend how you betrayed us."

"It wasn't like that," he tried to explain, the blood that had flowed into his mouth spraying from his lips. "I didn't . . ."

She kicked him in the stomach, setting him swinging, and he cried out in pain as the cuffs tore at his raw wrists and something in his right shoulder popped. At least this time she helped him steady himself, though she did it by skewering him on her sword. He groaned as the thick steel blade slipped between his ribs and fought to control his breathing to keep it from doing further internal damage. Finally, when he was still, she put her foot against his torso to hold him steady and pulled it out.

Wiping his blood on the thigh of his own jeans, she said, "I will hear none of your lies and excuses, _tha_ _moar ynageru càern maw bawcarth!_" (1)

_"Wednya ciod tha mi iarrsiau deudhair?"_ Methos pleaded. (2)

"I want you to speak the truth," Boudicca told him. "Tell your friend Macleod of our plan, of how you promised to help us crush the Romans only to abandon us on the eve of battle. Tell him, Methos, of how you sent forty thousand of my people to be slaughtered and exterminated an entire culture in just a score of years without ever raising your own sword against us."

Methos risked a glance at Macleod only to find his friend was staring at him as if he were a particularly disgusting species of insect. Being Death was bad enough, but to hear Boudicca describe it, he was really the Destroying Angel, not only taking lives by the tens of thousands, but blotting them from human memory. Bracing himself with a deep breath, which caused fiery pain to shoot through his ribs and back once again, he began telling the story that _should_ have become the defining legend of the British Isles four hundred years before the birth of King Arthur.

TBC

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(1) _"Tha moar ynageru càern maw bawcarth!_" means, "You great steaming pile of dog excrement!" What can I say? I like colorful curses! Boudicca's language at the time she met Methos would have been Iceni, an ancient Celtic language. The Romans introduced writing to Britain, and the Iceni were conquered by the Romans in 61 or 62 AD so there is little, if any written evidence of their language and I'm making it up for this story. My version is a combination of Welsh and Scottish Gaelic because those are the best online translators/dictionaries I could find.

(2) _"Wednya ciod tha mi iarrsiau deudhair?" _means, "Then what do you want me to say?" in my Iceni.


	6. The King's Will

**A/N:** This is where I begin taking some liberties with history. Detailed notes are at the end of the chapter.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Six  
><strong>__**The King's Will**_

"Prasutagus was a client-king of Rome for about twelve years, if memory serves," Methos began.

_As allies of Rome, the Iceni were allowed to maintain some vestiges of independence and Prasutagus prospered. By 59 AD, he had amassed considerable lands and a large fortune. The Iceni were minting their own coins, and the royal family, including nearly seventy aunties, uncles, nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters, cousins, and kinsmen, ruled all of what is now Norfolk, the northern half of Suffolk, and parts of Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire._

_Prasutagus was a good patriarch and he wanted to pass his fortune on to his family when he was gone. So, when he fell ill with a wasting disease in the spring of 59 AD, he humbly requested that the Roman procurator, Catus Decianus, send him a scribe to help him make out his will. _

_It was a clever move as far as it went. The Iceni lacked a written language of their own, so even if Prasutagus made his wishes known, the Romans could have declared that he died intestate and divvied up his fortune and properties among themselves; but a will, written in Latin and duly witnessed carried the weight of Roman law and would protect his estates from being usurped by greedy little local tyrants._

_Catus Decianus, being chief among the greedy little local tyrants in question and being wise enough to know that knowledge is power, wanted to get a preview of what Prasutagus was planning to do with his possessions so that when it came time to wrest the lands away from the rightful heirs, he would have an advantage over the competition. Instead of some lowly scribe, he sent me, Lucius Juventius Quietus, his vicarius_, _to take down the ailing king's last will and testament._

_Prasutagus left smaller estates and sums of money to each of his brothers and to his father's siblings. It was only the land they had been living on and enough money to get them through a couple of hard years, if they were careful, and it amounted to less than a tenth of the kingdom. So far, so good, it could be argued that those small estates had never really belonged to Prasutagus in the first place, but had only been under his protection and supervision so long as his relatives recognized him as rightful ruler of the Iceni. It was clever; it would work._

_His next move, however, was not nearly so shrewd. After disposing of a few personal items that held little more than sentimental value, he left the remainder of his kingdom to be shared jointly between the Roman Emperor, Nero, at the time, and his own two daughters, fourteen-year-old Rheiba, the Raven Princess, named for her glossy black hair, and Oidhaeche, the Owlet Princess, for her wide brown eyes that showed wisdom and vision well beyond that of the twelve years she had lived when I first met her._

_I tried to get Prasutagus to understand the mistake he was making! Firstly, it was a condition of his alliance with Rome that he would leave _all_of his lands _exclusively_to the Emperor upon his death. Secondly, Nero was a spoiled prat and did not share well with others; even if it what Prasutagus was doing were permitted, Nero would find a way to wrest the lands away from the girls, if not by bullying and haranguing them, then through poison or a convenient accident or fire. In fact, on my last visit to Rome some two years earlier, I had noticed the emperor had an uncommon fascination with fire, which, in retrospect, should have been a warning to us all. Thirdly, Roman law did not recognize a female's right to inherit anything. They were not permitted to own property or to buy or sell so much as a needle and thread without the husband's approval. Of course, most Roman husbands were not interested in micromanaging basic household affairs, so their wives were just given an allowance and expected to handle such things on their own. In any event, asking the Emperor to share his lands with two little girls was an insult, not only to the Emperor, but to Rome herself, her Law and all her citizens. Finally, though the Briton women were known to be as fierce as the men on the field of battle, at just fourteen and twelve, there was no way Rheiba and Oidhaeche could possibly be expected to hold onto their inheritance if Nero had allowed them to have it._

_I liked Prasutagus, but he was a fool, too enamored of his own cleverness to see his own stupidity._

A hard slap to the back of his head made reminded Methos where he was and who was present. "A fool he may have been," Boudicca said. "But he was _my _fool and I loved him dearly for as long as I had him. You'll remember that and keep a civil tongue when you speak of him, or you may find yourself facing eternity as a mute."

_Eternity_ she had said. Not _the future_. She still intended to take his head, eventually, but at least she was letting him tell his story. Maybe there was a chance he could convince her otherwise. Methos swallowed hard and continued.

_I read the will back to him when he was finished, and he made his mark. I tried to convince him one more time to just do what the treaty demanded and give it all to Nero. There would have been taxes to pay, and tribute, and conscripts to the Roman army, but his family would have continued to live peacefully on his lands, and there was a decent chance that one of his brothers would have been named a local administrator. _

_I begged Prasutagus once more to think of his daughters, of the dangers to which they would be exposed. In the seven days I had been in his house, discussing the will, enjoying his hospitality, and spying for Decianus, I had grown quite fond of them. When their father was resting, they entertained me with their childish games and songs; impressed me with their riding skills, which shouldn't have been so surprising since Iceni means People of the Horse; practiced their Latin on me; told me the myths and legends of their people; and begged me for stories of the Roman and Greek gods and heroes each night by the fire. It had been many years since I had spent any time around children, and the hours I spent with Rheiba and Oidhaeche made me long for a quiet, pastoral life once again. _

_It nearly broke my heart when Prasutagus just laughed off my concerns and told me his wife was more than a match for Nero and she would protect the girls. When I explained that Nero wouldn't trouble himself to deal with his wife because he had thousands of others to do it for him, he told me not to worry, that she was a warrior woman and would mow them down as the scythe mows down barley._

_At the time I did not know his wife was Immortal. The whole while I was there, she had been visiting one of her in-laws, helping to run the household while the lady of the house recovered from a difficult childbirth. I thought his high praise was just the daft prattling of a silly old man enamored of his young, spirited bride. Unable to convince him to change his will, I left Prasutagus's house with a sack full of barley bread, a roast pigeon, and a hunk of cheese; a heavy heart; and two beautiful young girls and their aunty waving goodbye until I was out of sight._

_When I returned to Camelodunum, Decianus interrogated me about everything from the jewellery I had seen the dying king wear to the number of servants in the royal household. I kept my answers to his questions vague, and lied outright to him a time or two when he asked about the fighting strength of Prasutagus's clan and the weapons and supplies they had available. I fully expected there to be an outright war for the Iceni lands upon his death, and didn't want that greedy little prat, Decianus, to have any advantage. _

_Six months later, as autumn was turning to winter, I met a boy named Haerviu in the market in Camelodunum. He never looked me in the eye as he sold me a loaf of bread I did not want, but he bade me greetings from Queen Boudicca of the Iceni. He told me her husband and daughters had spoken well of me and that she would like to meet me. Given the king's worsening health, she wondered if I might do her the honour of visiting her humble home in Venta Icenorum. He was meeting me in the market, he said, because his mistress knew it would be politically unwise for me to be seen associating with the Iceni in such turbulent times and that she would understand if I chose not to come._

_Decianus, as it turned out, was in Gaul visiting some relative or other. As his vicarius I was in charge for the time he was gone and subject to no supervision. The procurator's duties were light at that time of year as the harvests were over and most of the accounting done, so I could afford the leisure time to make the trip to Venta Icenorum. Also, I was known among my colleagues to be clever but not particularly ambitious, so none of them were surprised when I announced that no taxes were to be collected during my absence. I instructed my underlings to offer hospitality to anyone who came to make a payment and to advise them that I would be back in nine days' time to collect their tribute to Rome._

_I made sure I was seen heading south on the road for Londinium, and then, when I was several miles out of sight of Camelodunum, I cut across country heading northwest to Icknield Way. The air was crisp and the wind raw, so a warm cloak pulled up around my face was an appropriate disguise and no one in the tiny tavern at Durolipons spared a second glance for the Roman stranger who bought a mug of mulled wine and a mutton pie to warm him before he left town heading northeast._

_As luck would have it, I overtook Haerviu about a day's ride south of the Venta Icenorum. We were far enough from Camelodunum that I was not concerned about meeting anyone who might know me, so I offered the boy a ride. It was from him that I learned that Prasutagus would soon be dead and it would fall to Queen Boudicca to sort out the estate. She knew the ailing king had made some unfortunate bequests in his will, and was hoping I would advise her on how to negotiate a peaceable agreement with the Empire that would not render her household, particularly her daughters, homeless._

_Had Decianus not known about the writing of the will, I would have told the boy to advise her to tear the document to shreds and burn it and then surrender all Iceni lands to the Empire as had been agreed when Prasutagus signed the treaty making him a client-king and ally of Rome. As things stood, perhaps I could write a new will and convince her to forge her husband's mark, or, failing that, create a new document in which Rheiba and Oidhaeche humbly ceded their rights to the Emperor and solicited his charity in allowing them to live in their ancestral home until such time as they were married._

_I was still mentally composing the document that would formally turn the Iceni lands over to the Empire when we entered the yard in front of the royal residence. My horse had not yet cleared the gate when I felt the presence of another immortal so strongly it nearly knocked me from my saddle._

_TBC_

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**A/N:** There is no record of how Prasutagus died, but Tacitus writes that he named his daughters as co-heirs with the Roman Emperor, Nero, in his will. It seems reasonable to me that, in attempting such a bold move to secure his legacy, he would enlist the aid of a Roman scribe to try to make it legal. It also proved a convenient way of getting Methos into this bit of history.

Through the series and the novels, we learn that Methos spent a lot of time in Rome in the first century. Of course, he couldn't have stayed in the city itself for a hundred years; someone would have noticed that he didn't age. So, it makes sense that he would go out to the provinces from time to time, or on a campaign, and then return as another man under another name when those who were likely to know him had died or moved on.

There is no historical record for the names of Prasutagus's daughters. I selected Rheiba (Raven) and Oidhaeche (Owlet) for their symbolic significance in Celtic folklore. The Raven has the gift of sight and the power of healing. The Owl is known for wisdom, patience, and spiritual magic.

Haerviu is one of the few Iceni/Celtic Briton names of which records survive. I have no idea who he was or what he did, but if he was a powerful or important man, it seems reasonable that a servant boy's mother would name him after the great man in the hopes that he would become something great himself.

There is no evidence that Boudicca was a midwife, but in this story, she is the kind of down-to-earth woman who would lend a hand whenever she had the skill to be useful. She must have had a special connection with her people to accomplish what she did, and helping other women during childbirth seemed to me a good way for her to get to know her subjects and discretely establish diplomatic ties with neighbouring tribes and nobles for months, if not years, prior to Prasutagus's death and the subsequent revolt.


	7. Encounter

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Seven  
><strong>__**Encounter**_

"You know, you can jump ahead to the night before the final battle any time you want," Boudicca interrupted.

"Who's telling this story?" Methos demanded.

"Well, then, move it along," she said, prodding him hard enough in the kidney with the point of her sword to make him wince.

He tried to sigh, but it turned into a grunt of pain from his still over-taxed shoulders, back, and ribs. After taking a moment to compose himself, he resumed his story.

"After I wobbled in the saddle, Haerviu made a joke at my expense," he said, "so I shoved him off the back of my horse into the mud."

The ancient immortal closed his eyes and let himself slip back into the mists of the past.

_I was deeply shaken as I rode across the yard. I had never encountered such a powerful Immortal, but I knew enough about the game to realize that whoever it was had to be very old or had taken many heads very quickly. I was quite confident of my skills with a sword, but I could tell by the way my skin was prickling that this person was, at the very least, my match. If my opponent was not as strong or as quick as me, then he likely would be even cleverer. If there was to be a fight, it would have to be the fight of my life if I wanted to keep my head._

_I dismounted and approached the door, giving my reigns to one of the servants. I was an invited guest and had felt no Immortal presence here on my last visit. The other of my kind would not be so foolish as to risk a fight here in broad daylight, and I doubted I would need to make a quick getaway. It was better to let the stable master tend to my horse now, so that he would be well-fed and rested later._

_Haerviu_ _having abandoned me, hopefully to wash the mud from his clothes, I found myself approaching the door alone. I rapped with my knuckles, and heard stirring inside. Then, as I stood there waiting, the presence of the other Immortal moved closer. Every hair on my body stood upright; the buzz in my head grew almost painful, making it hard to focus. I could only hope the Immortal on the other side of the door was affected as profoundly as I otherwise, I doubted I would stand a chance in combat._

_I heard the latch lift, and the door swung open. I was greeted by a tall woman with flaming red hair pulled back in a tight braid. The glint of a sword flashed among the folds of her colorful robe._

_"I am Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni," she said, eyeing me warily._

_Well, this changed everything. As Queen, she could do many things that her subjects could not, and these primitive people believed in magic. For all I knew, they had seen her take heads before, had witnessed the Quickening, been given some fairy-tale explanation of it such as their Queen-protector absorbing the evil from the other combatant so that it couldn't pollute the Iceni, and wouldn't flinch to see her lop my head off right there at the threshold. Now I understood Prasutagus's confidence that she would protect his daughters. Mortals have never understood that simply being uncommonly hard to kill did not endow our kind with magical powers._

_"I am Lucius Juventius Quietus, vicarius of Catus Decianus, procurator of the province of Brittania," I replied, being sure she saw my hand move to the hilt of my gladius. "You requested my presence, and though I have no responsibility to do so, I have decided to oblige. Is it customary for barbarians to greet their invited guests with a sword in hand?"_

_Of course I was posturing, acting officious and arrogant as Romans tended to do. The truth was, I was in no condition to fight and was just playing for time to regain my equilibrium._

"I should have taken your head right there on my doorstep," Boudicca interjected.

"What? And missed all those good times we shared?" Methos teased with a leer.

Boudicca kicked him in the stomach. He groaned loudly as he swung from his wrists, took a moment to catch his breath once he regained his footing, and resumed his story.

_"It is not the Iceni custom," the woman admitted, "but under the circumstances, it seemed prudent. Had I known what you were, I would not have invited you here."_

_"Had I known you were the same, I would not have come."_

_She looked me over, literally, from head to foot and back again. I felt very exposed under her glittering green gaze until she seemed to come to a decision about me._

_"I have no quarrel with you, Lucius Juventius Quietus," she finally said. "If you help me to help my people, then, once they are settled again into a safe and peaceable way of life, I will accept your challenge, if you issue one."_

_"I am not one for hunting heads," I told her. "I will help you if I can, and then we can go our separate ways."_

_She stared at me for another long moment and then gave me a brilliant smile. "Agreed."_

_She called for food and drink and directed me to a sitting room off to the side of the main entrance hall. Hardly had I cleared the doorway when I was attacked. Rheiba came from my left and threw her arms around my neck, her dark hair, loose and flying, obscured my vision long enough for Oidhaeche to get her arms around my waist._

_"Lucius, I have solved the Riddle of the Sphinx!" Oidhaeche informed me excitedly._

_Rheiba_ _said, "Thadogi (1) gave me a horse for my birthday, Lucius, and I named him Mercurius because he is very fast."_

_"It's a man, isn't it?" Oidhaeche asked._

_"It is," I told her._

_"Girls!"_ _Boudicca snapped before I could respond to Rheiba, "This is no way for the heirs of Prasutagus to behave! This man is a Roman, hardly an old family friend, and you will address him accordingly!"_

_The princesses jumped away from me as if I had burned them. Both of them stood before me, hands folded at their waists, faces suddenly stony, and finally I could look at them properly. _

_What a difference six months had made! Rheiba already had been tall when I met her, but she was all arms and legs back in the spring. Over the summer she had filled out, developed some curves, and was well on her way to becoming a beautiful young woman. Oidhaeche had shot up more than a hand's breadth. She was still not as tall as her sister, but now she did not have to tilt her head to look me in the eye._

_"Lucius Juventius Quietus, it is good to see you," Rheiba said gravely._

_I tried not to smirk as she strove to be so grown up. "Rheiba, Raven Princess of the Iceni, it is good to see you, as well."_

_Rheiba_ _nodded sternly. There was a brief silence, and when her little sister failed to give me a properly formal greeting, she gently nudged her with an elbow in the ribs._

_"L-Lucius Juventius," Oidhaeche said with a wobble in her lower lip, "I am glad that you are well."_

_"Oidhaeche, the Owlet Princess, I am all the better for seeing you again," I told her._

_After a beat, Boudicca smiled at the girls and said, "You are excused."_

_Rheiba_ _walked from the room sedately. Oidhaeche stood there sniveling for a moment._

_"Hychydith comhaeche," (2) Boudicca said gently, and the girl fled the room sobbing._

_"You seem to have made quite an impression on my household," Boudicca smirked. "I notice you allowed my daughters to use your praenomen. I thought that was reserved only for one's family and the most intimate of friends."_

_"They're lovely girls," I told her, "and they made me feel most welcome. It seemed appropriate."_

_"Ah, I see," she observed dryly. "And how appropriate will it seem when they come to Camelodunum to pay their inheritance tax and greet you so familiarly in front of Decianus?"_

_I felt my face redden. She had a point. Fortunately, I was saved from having to respond by a servant coming in with a platter of food: cold meats, sharp cheese, dark crusty bread, pickled vegetables, and dried fruits soaking in strong mulled wine. It was hardly typical fare for the Britons who tended to prefer simple meat and vegetable stews, but I did not think for a moment that Boudicca was merely trying to impress me. She was far more than the typical Briton, and I had no doubt that she took pains to ensure that her entire household ate a nutritious and varied diet. Perhaps it was even one of the advantages that had made Prasutagus the successful and prosperous king that he had been._

_Changing the subject from my earlier embarrassment as the serving girl left to relay our compliments to the cook, I asked Boudicca, "Did you have to be so hard on Rheiba and Oidhaeche? They're just girls."_

_"No, they are not 'just girls' any longer. They are the heirs to the Iceni kingdom," Boudicca reminded me. "They will soon be queens of a strong and proud people, but only so long as the people believe their choices are guided by strength and wisdom. Rheiba is fully a woman now, and would have several youths vying for her hand were they not all too afraid of me to ask permission. Oidhaeche is growing as fast and as tall as the rushes at the edge of the pond, and will soon have her share of suitors, too. It would not do for anyone to see them greeting a Roman official as if they were a couple of his favorite hounds licking his palm to taste the grease from his last meal. I will allow them to enjoy your company later, but they must learn, and learn quickly, that one cannot always be ingenuous in the political arena."_

_"But their father is dying," I reminded her, feeling compelled for some reason to defend the young princesses._

_Boudicca paled, and suddenly I realized that it was not my place to remind the queen of the imminent death of her king. Being mortal, Prasutagus had been dying since she met him, practically since he was born, and yet she had loved him. Mortals are so fragile, and the pain of loss is something our kind has always had to accept whenever we dared to care for one of them. Seeing that pain in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth when she pressed her lips tight to keep herself from saying things she did not want me, a Roman, to hear, brought back memories of my own losses, women I'd loved and married, men I'd called friend, and I was overwhelmed with a surge of empathy for her._

_"I'm sorry . . ." I began, but she cut me off._

_"You do not need to apologize," she said brusquely. "You are right that losing their father will be difficult, but sometimes, life does not allow us time to mourn. Rheiba and Oidhaeche must be ready to lead, and soon. I do not wish to be so hard on them, but there are many hard lessons they have yet to learn."_

_I do not know if she was aware of the quaver in her voice as she spoke of teaching her daughters how to rule, but hearing her passion, her love for her king, for her children, and for her people, I felt this peculiar urge to help, if I could do so with no serious risk to myself, of course._

_Against my better judgment and despite having sworn off politics when Druscilla the Emasculator had me crucified, I said, "I can make no promises, but please, tell me, how can I help you?"_

_She gave me a beguiling smile and said, "First, just let me get to know you." _

_TBC_

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(1) father

(2) little owl


	8. Question

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_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Eight  
><strong>__**Question**_

_The first two days of my visit, Boudicca and I spent many hours talking, eating, and keeping company with the princesses. I was a little hurt that Rheiba and Oidhaeche had reverted to calling me by my nomen, Juventius, but Boudicca had made her point and I could not argue with it. _

_Despite the formal air and the mournful undertone, we still managed to have great fun in our lighter moments. We played a game similar calculi on a board of sixty-four squares, but with the objective of stealing all of the opposing player's pieces rather than forming lines of five. It was a simple enough game, but some bit of strategy escaped me, and even little Oidhaeche gave me an embarrassing defeat. _

_That first evening by the fire, we told stories. I told them the myth of the Twelve Labors of Hercules and the story of the founding of Rome. The princesses shared legends of their ancient gods and goddesses, and I had to admit, in light of their tales, the Romans could have done better to respect the sacred feminine and the gifts of nature. Boudicca told stories of lands far away to the east, mountainous regions where the snow never melted, and high cold deserts where the winter winds screamed like banshees and stirred the sands to bury oases, homes, families, and people. Though Boudicca swore otherwise, I was as convinced as the princesses that some of her tales were works of pure imagination. In others, I recognized places I had been and couldn't help but wonder how often one of us might have walked in the other's footsteps, haggled with the same merchant, drank from the same well days or decades or generations apart._

_I have forgotten much of that first day as it was all just idle chatter, but after the princesses had gone to bed, Boudicca asked me a simple question that I could not answer simply._

_"Do you love Rome?" she asked._

_"It's a beautiful city," I replied._

_"But do you love it? Not just the city, but all of Rome, the Empire."_

_"For her citizens, her laws are just and fair," I said. "She brings culture and prosperity to all those who would accept her auspices."_

_"For a price," Boudicca reminded me, "And she makes war on those who would live free of her taxes, her emperor, and her pantheon."_

_"But those taxes go to building roads, aqueducts, public baths, and all sorts of things that improve life for everyone within her borders."_

_"Aye, and they pay for temples to the Roman gods with no regard to whether Rome's subjects wish to worship them, and to feed the Roman Emperor on milk-fattened snails and wild boar stuffed with live doves, too," she pointed out. "But you still haven't answered my question. Do you love Rome, Lucius Juventius Quietus?"_

_I thought of Apicius, Petronius, and Constantine, men I had called friends, even though one of them had owned me as a slave. I thought of the several Roman women I had bedded, and one I had briefly wedded._

_"There are Romans I have loved," I told her._

_Boudicca shook her head. "But do you love **Rome**?" she demanded. "If dropping to your knees here and now and giving me your head without a fight could ensure her eternal peace and prosperity, would you do it?"_

_My expression must have given away some hint of anxiety, because she rolled her eyes and said, "It is not a threat or a challenge, Juventius, it is a question. Do you love Rome enough to sacrifice your Immortal life for her?"_

_Again, I thought of Rome in terms of the Romans I had known. I would have fought to defend any of the Roman women I had loved simply because that is what one does for a lover. As for the men . . ._

_Apicius_ _was a cook. He may have had rivals, maybe even some who hated him enough to try to poison him, or worse yet, smuggle some spoiled shellfish into one of his banquets and make the guests sick to ruin his reputation, but a man like Apicius didn't have enemies. I couldn't even imagine having to raise my sword in his defense. If some drunken bastard had managed to kill him by accident, I would have locked the fool in a dark basement and fed him just enough coarse bread and water to let him die slowly of starvation, but even that would have been more for the love of the food than of the man. I would never risk my head for Apicius._

_Petronius, even though I was his slave, I regarded as a friend. He wasn't brilliant, which is why he needed my advice, and he wasn't ruthless, which is why he needed his wife, Druscilla's, backbone; but he was just and noble and practical and as honest as the sun, which is why Rome needed him, even if she didn't know it at the time. Given sufficient need and opportunity, I would have fought by Petronius's side to install him as Emperor. Even as a slave, I took significant risks trying to help him rise to power for his main competition, Caligula, was raving mad and would have had me killed had he know I was the brains behind Petronius's campaign. Being Immortal, it wouldn't have stuck unless he decided to take my head, but it would have required me to start over somewhere else as someone else, and with Caligula being a madman, there was always the chance that he **would** have me beheaded. Then that libidinous bitch, Druscilla, cried rape and had me crucified when I refused her advances, and all our plans died with my alias, Remus, there on the cross._

_Constantine, most of all, was a friend. I owed him a debt of gratitude for rescuing me from Druscilla's cross without taking my head and for helping me create my new alias as Lucius Juventius. For thirty years, his name had opened doors of opportunity for me, and it was he who had gotten me my current position as vicarius to Catus Decianus. If for some reason Constantine were unable to answer a challenge for his head, I would fight for him, just the once, to repay my debt, but to go like a lamb to the slaughter? To kneel before a challenger and offer my head without a fight? Not even for Constantine could I imagine myself doing that._

_"And that is where we differ," Boudicca said to me. "You love the life Rome allows you to live, but as an ideal, as something larger than yourself, you do not love it more than your own head. I love the Iceni, not just my daughters and my husband, not just my friends and in-laws, but all the clans that make the tribe. I love their traditions and their stories, their religion and way of life, warts and all I love every one of them and everything about them. They deserve the future and the future deserves them, and if I could save them by sacrificing myself right now, I would do it."_

_Her sentiments seemed eerily familiar. "You're not one of those Cristianos coming out of Jerusalem in recent years, are you?"_

_Boudicca snorted a laugh. "No! I met Jesus of Nazareth, the man they call Christ, at his famous sermon on the hill near Capernaum," she told me. "I found him to be an exceptional man and teacher possessing uncommon compassion, mercy, kindness, sincerity, common sense, and faith, but I do not worship him."_

_Again, our paths had crossed, and for once, we had been in the same place at the same time, although I had stayed only for the list of blessings at the beginning of the sermon. I had sensed another Immortal in the vicinity that day, but the crowd was too thick for me to locate Boudicca before my caravan left Capernaum. I concurred with her impression of the late rabbi, but before I could tell Boudicca of our near miss, she continued speaking._

_"I would not martyr myself for the Iceni out of some sense of religious obligation," she said. "Jesus truly believed he was the living fulfillment of prophecies stretching back some seven hundred years. For all I know, he was right, but I have no scriptural responsibilities to perform."_

_"Then why do you say you would give your head for them?" I asked._

_"Because for the first time in over two thousand years, I feel like I am home among these people," she told me serenely. "Would you not give your head to restore the home you left behind when you became one of us?"_

_I thought of the oasis where I had grown up in the shade of fig trees and palms with my two brothers and two sisters and a mother and father who loved us all. I remembered little else of my childhood except that we lived well and we were happy, but sometimes I had dreams of almost perfect bliss that left me feeling bereft when I woke from them._

_"Even if you could save the Iceni by sacrificing yourself, it wouldn't bring back the people you left behind when you became Immortal," I replied, intentionally dodging her question. "Perhaps you should try returning home and starting a new life. No one there will remember you after all this time."_

_"It would be my greatest joy to return to my village," she said. "But I can't. It no longer exists."_

_I already felt a great deal of empathy for Boudicca based on our similar adventures, but it was nothing compared to what I would feel when she told me the story of how she became Immortal._

_TBC_


	9. Biography

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Nine  
><strong>__**Biography**_

"To make a long story short, he seduced me," Boudicca broke in.

"Excuse me! Have you lost your bloody mind?" Methos demanded. Looking to Macleod, he said, "I was vicarius to the proconsul of Britannia. She was the widow of a client-king. I had nothing to gain from seducing her." Turning back to Boudicca, he said, "If anything, you seduced me with your story so that I would help you negotiate with the Romans."

"And look where that got me," Boudicca sneered.

"Is it possible you just fell in love with each other without any ulterior motive?" Macleod asked, hoping to get them to some common ground.

"Absolutely not!" Boudicca snapped.

"Not bloody likely!" Methos agreed.

Macleod sighed. It was not the common ground he had been hoping for.

"I warned you that the Romans could be greedy, cruel, and unyielding," Methos reminded Boudicca. "I am sorry for what happened, but it was your choice to proceed." His sympathy was sincere, but then his expression became cold and his tone dangerous. "Given our relative positions at the time, if you had possessed anything I wanted, I could have just _taken_ it from you."

Boudicca's green eyes glittered with fury. Methos had just enough time to wonder what had possessed him to antagonize her before she pulled her dagger out, and with a ululating cry, shoved it up under his ribcage, lacerating his spleen and puncturing his lung. He cried out in agony and coughed up blood. Then he fixed her with a defiant stare and resumed where he left off when she had interrupted him.

"I listened with rapt attention as Boudicca told me how she became Immortal," he said, wheezing a little and grimacing as the blue lightning raced to heal him before his slit-open spleen could bleed him out like a slaughtered hog or his punctured lung could drown him in his own blood. The hell of it was, every breath he took reopened the wound a little, causing him more pain than he would have felt if she had given him a fatal wound from which he could revive. Boudicca had said she wanted him to suffer, and she was making sure he did.

_"In my thirtieth year, the spring rains came over the mountains as they always did," she said. "They drove away the chill of winter, flooded the plain where we grew our crops, enriched the soil with new silt, and, most years, brought the desert to our north to vibrant, flowering life for a few weeks.(1) That year was different. The rains carried on through most of the summer, long past planting time, and into the harvest of first fruits. The few seeds we did manage to plant were either washed away or rotted in the ground. It was as if the gods meant to wash us from the face of the earth as our stories said they had tried to do in the early days when our people were wicked and greedy and selfish. _

_"The wild fruits and berries that we normally harvested and dried did not grow in sufficient numbers because the bees did not fly from blossom to blossom when they were in bloom. Those that we did manage to pick could not be dried because of the constant damp and would rot if not consumed within a day or two._

_"Our grazing land turned to swamp, so we moved our sheep and goats to higher pastures. There was something bad about the grass up there, and only two out of every ten survived the first cycle of the moon. Some families lost their entire herds. Those that remained were too important for milk and wool to be slaughtered for their meat._

_"We could not fish because the current was too swift. Lines, nets, traps, and boats alike were swept away by the river. Spear fishing was equally impossible because the water was simply too muddy to see the fish. The marsh seven days journey to our east was flooded so deeply that we could not harvest the mussels we usually gathered there. The deer, the boar, and the bear left our valley seeking drier habitats. Even the wild hares were flooded from their homes and moved into the mountains more than a day's walk from our village._

_"We all grew lean that year on a diet of wild greens, lizards, snakes, frogs, eggs, and doves, but we worked together, shared what we had, and none of us starved. Then, as the weather warmed into the hottest part of the summer, mosquitoes blackened every standing pool. There were millions upon millions of them, and they brought the fever with them. A third of the village died. Children were orphaned, mothers buried their babies, and elders lost the adult children who would have cared for them in their old age. Some entire families were wiped out._

_"With the cold season coming on, and nothing laid by for winter, we began to plan a hunting expedition following the bear, the deer, and the boar. We had no idea how far the hunting party would have to travel, what, if any, luck they would have, or whether they would ever come back. They would not return unless they found enough meat to feed the entire village, so choosing which and how many hunters to send was a momentous decision for each household. _

_"Like the Iceni, our men and women hunted, fought, cooked, cleaned, cared for the children and ruled side by side; no responsibility was considered too important for a woman or too menial for a man. My husband's sister, Kronse Mit (2), was recently widowed by the fever and great with child. So it was decided that I would be the one to go from our household, and my husband, __Tsirauñe_ _Knan_ _(3), would stay behind to look after his sister._

_"For the next seven days, Kronse and T__sirauñe_ _helped me to prepare my weapons, sharpen my axe and my knife, pack my bedroll and my meager rations. We had been living with the storms for so long that we were quite used to the voice of thunder and none of us feared it anymore. I don't remember any screaming or running. I don't remember being afraid. By the time we realized the noise was not the arguing of the sky gods, half the mountain had come down upon us. _

_"I woke up in a dark, wet hole, sheltered somewhat from the crushing weight of the landslide by the protective cocoon of my husband's body. It must have taken me several days to claw my way out, mud filling my eyes and ears, my nose and mouth, tree trunks and boulders blocking my way, and what I thought was my falling asleep from fatigue was more than likely my repeated dying of suffocation. _

_"I finally broke out of my tomb under the light of a full moon. For the first time in seven months, the sky was clear. Such a great pile of earth had fallen on my home that it had blocked the river, creating a lake to the west and causing it to flow northward away from the village when it used to flow east not a morning's walk from our hut. I saw a herd of deer out grazing on the plain, and a lion stalking them. I could hear wolves in the distance, and something large snuffling through the debris that had come down off the mountain. I didn't have a flint to strike a spark even if I could have found tinder and dry wood for a fire, and without fire to frighten the predators, I was just meat. I climbed back into my burrow and waited for dawn._

_"When I came out in the morning, there was literally nothing left of my home. Not one stick or rag or piece of thatch, not one of the little desert cats that chased the mice that stole our grain, no familiar voices calling good morning, not one thing to say my people had been there except for the hole I had crawled out of and my footprints in the mud where I had searched all day for any sign of them. If not for the ache in my heart, I could have imagined it all had been a dream._

_"I don't know whether I lingered for weeks or months. Looking back, I think I died of starvation and thirst more than once simply because my grief was so sharp that I didn't recognize the pangs of hunger or the ache of a parched throat. Eventually, I had mourned until my heart could hurt no longer, and then I began walking. _

_"I found a teacher in a wise and benevolent old Sovereign named Shun who caught me stealing rice dumplings stuffed with pork and red bean paste_ _from a market stall. When the vendor would have had me punished, Shun paid for stolen meal and admonished the vendor to have mercy for it was clear that I was starving. It was a blessing that Shun was a kindly man who didn't want my head, for I didn't recognize his Presence then for the warning that it was; I thought it was just my body struggling to cope with the first nourishment it had received in days._

_"Shun taught me what I was, the rules of the Game, what the Presence meant, how to fight, and more importantly, how to make peace. From him I learned there were ancient stories of great floods in many different cultures; and I decided then that bad things happened not because the gods were angry with us, but because they became bored and inattentive. _

_"I studied with Shun for nearly a hundred years. His people believed him to be a benevolent sorcerer. They were all short and stocky with straight black hair, yellow skin, and almond-shaped dark eyes; so when I stood a head taller than my mentor with my red hair, ivory skin, and green eyes, it was easy to convince them that I was a witch. There was no need to explain why we never aged._

_"Then a warrior named Sun Tzu came to our village. Shun sent me to the temple, and from the top of the steps, I watched Sun Tzu take his head and receive his Quickening. Hardly had he regained his footing when I charged him, screaming in rage. I would have had his head in revenge had he not in just that moment acquired Shun's countenance and spoken to me in my teacher's voice. _

_"'You do not need to avenge me,' he said. 'As the fox preys upon the hare, so among our kind do the strong prey upon the weak; but this warrior, he is a mighty lion who challenges only those who can threaten him.'_

_"'But you are a threat to no one, master,' I told him. 'You are neither a fox nor a lion, but a stately old tiger who would spend his days basking in the sun if he was just left alone.'_

_"'And now this warrior knows that,' Shun said. 'If you let him live, he will teach others as I have taught you.'_

_"I howled in rage and frustration. Every fiber of my being wanted to hack off Sun Tzu's head, but my ears had heard my master's words and stayed my sword. Then Shun's image vanished and Sun Tzu's face appeared before me once again. I began to tremble with bloodlust and a thirst for revenge._

_"'Remember, a warrior's greatest battle is with himself,' Sun Tzu told me in my master's voice. 'The greatest victory is won without a fight when two enemies can part and go their separate ways and live in peace and never raise their swords.'_

_"Then Sun Tzu threw down his sword. 'Take my head if you must,' he said, speaking with his own voice now. 'With it, you will acquire all of your master's knowledge and all of mine. You will finally understand the horror of taking a life, and you will feel the compulsion to teach others to avoid bloodshed when possible. Or you can let me live, and we can both teach the wisdom of Shun.'_

_"I screamed until I ran out of breath. My insides boiled with grief and anger burned in my guts like pitch. Like a fool, I turned my back on him to compose myself, and he did not attack. When I faced Sun Tzu again, he knelt before me._

_"It would have been easy to take his head then, but my master had taught me better. If my opponent would not or could not fight, the battle was already won. There was no need to raise my sword against him and I would find only shame in doing so. _

_"'Leave this place,' I commanded Sun Tzu. 'Fight only to defend your head or the lives of those who cannot defend themselves. Teach my master's wisdom to all who would learn from you, and do not cross my path again.'_

_"Sun Tzu got to his feet, picked up his sword and sheathed it, and bowed low before me. Again I quivered with the desire to take his head, but I restrained myself out of respect for my master._

_"'Thank you for my life,' Sun Tzu said. 'I will forever honour your master's memory.' Then he bowed again and walked out of the village._

_"I stayed with Shun's people for perhaps another fifty years, teaching and farming beside them until the thirst for revenge subsided. Then it was time for me to walk the earth again. The last I heard, Sun Tzu was teaching in a monastery in the mountains at the roof of the world. _

_"Thirty-odd years ago, I was living in Capernaum when a donkey cart broke loose on its way up a hill and ran me over. When I revived, I fled westward only because I hadn't been that way before. Most recently, I lived among the Druids on Mona for nearly twenty years before wedding Prasutagus. The Iceni think I am of Druid origin and know their magic, which is why they have not questioned that I do not seem to age. And that is how I came to be Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni."_

_For a long time after she finished talking, I kept silent. Her story could have been mine; the broad strokes were so alike that the details didn't matter. Instead of a desert oasis, she had lived in a village along the river. Instead of wind and dust, her world had ended in rain and mud. She had studied for nearly a century with Shun, whose wisdom filled Sun Tzu when the philosopher-warrior took his quickening. Then she spared Sun-Tzu, who later became my teacher for more than a hundred years. We had followed in one another's footsteps for nearly two thousand years. We probably stood within one hundred yards of each other when we heard Jesus teach at Capernaum. _

_I had come of age in a culture that had not yet invented religion, so I never was a religious man. I had seen gods and goddesses, heroes and legends, myths and spirits, philosophies, doctrines, and dogmas come and go in and out of fashion for some two or three thousand years already. As much as I enjoyed the current life the Roman Empire had granted me, I was weary of Roman greed and the thirst for conquest and glory. It had sickened me to see that lunatic Caligula fornicating with his sister and then deifying her corpse and himself. It grieved me now that Nero grew fat on rare and exotic delicacies and played his lyre while citizens and subjects alike starved, and then he murdered innocent Christianos and other non-conformists to entertain the masses and make them forget their own plight. _

_I had seen too many noble cultures crushed beneath the heel of Rome: the Greeks, Cleopatra's Egypt, the Iberians, the Gauls, the Britons. At that very moment, Seutonius was on his way to Alba to exterminate the Druids. And now, here was Boudicca, this fierce woman, an Immortal like me, who was determined that her people would not bow beneath the yoke of Roman tyranny. I could not help but think that some force, some higher power, had brought Boudicca and me together at that time and place._

_I decided to tell her my story. _

TBC

(1) The Boudicca in this story is almost as old as Methos. She grew up in the Tarim Basin, in the Taklamakan Desert of Western China, and her people, in my imagination, spoke a language called Tocharian A. The Tarim Basin is a high, cold, arid region, surrounded on all sides by mountains with the Lop Nur Marsh at the easternmost end. Beginning around the 200s BC, the Silk Road skirted the basin on both the north and south, but Boudicca would have been long gone by then. In the early 20th century, European explorers found Caucasoid and Mongoloid mummies in the region dating back to about 1,900 BC. Among the various mummies found were two with red hair and at least one wearing tartan. The Wikipedia article "Tarim Mummies" makes an interesting read if you are into that kind of thing.

(2) Honey Bee in Tocharian A.

(3) Power to Know in Tocharian A.


	10. Secret

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Ten  
><strong>__**Secret**_

"I could not help but think that some force, some higher power, had brought Boudicca and me together at that time and place," Methos said. "I decided to tell her my story."

"You told me only as much of your story as was convenient for you," Boudicca interrupted. "And I am no longer convinced that any of it was true."

As Methos inhaled to reply to her thinly-veiled accusation, a sharp rattle in his chest made him cough. All of his stretched and strained muscles complained and he swore he could feel the barely-healed wound in his lung rip open again, but he couldn't even groan in agony because of the coughing. Finally he managed to hawk something up, and spat a gelatinous glob of phlegm and clotted blood at Boudicca's feet. Watching her expression closely, he saw disgust, but no remorse, flit across her features and knew he was in deep shit. He wheezed, cleared his throat again, and this time spat away from her.

"I told you about those relevant parts of my past that I could remember," he finally rasped quietly. "And I _never_ lied to you. If I left things out, it was because they were not important, I did not remember them, or I didn't want to face the pain that came with the memories," he said.

Boudicca sucked her teeth at him. "Who are you trying to persuade, Methos?" she asked. "Me? Or yourself?"

"What does it matter?" he moaned. "You're only going to torture me and then take my head. Why not just get it over with now?" He leaned forward and bowed his head, giving her an easy angle. "Go on, do it!"

"Nay, Methos. I would never dishonor my people by murdering an unarmed captive," Boudicca said.

Looking at her defiantly, he demanded, "Then give me my sword and let me fight."

"I do not wish to fight you if I do not have to," she said.

"Then forgive him!" Macleod called across the room, startling them both. "He's said he's sorry. Forgive him and you don't have to fight him. You don't have to take his head."

"What makes you think she could?" Methos sounded offended.

The Highlander just rolled his eyes. It didn't matter who could or would win, although Methos was certainly at a disadvantage. If they didn't fight, neither of them would have to die. Macleod was trying to save a life, and Methos, the idiot, was posturing to defend a bruised ego.

"I wish it were that easy," Boudicca lamented.

"It is exactly that easy," Macleod told her. "Just make up your mind that you don't need revenge. Make the choice right now to let it go and stop being angry with him."

"I can do that for myself," Boudicca said. "But what about Rheiba, Oidhaeche, Haerviu, Catavingus, and the forty thousand others whom he murdered?"

"It was war . . ." Macleod tried to reason with her.

"It was _treachery_!" Boudicca roared. "Honor demands that I avenge my people!"

"Then _why_ haven't you done it already?" Methos shouted.

Macleod gave him an irritated glare that said, _Will you shut up? You're not helping matters any._

Boudicca turned back to the ancient Immortal. "Even a traitor has the right to a court martial," she said. "Make no mistake, Methos, this is a trial. You are being given a chance to defend your actions."

"You've already decided I'm guilty," he replied sullenly. "Why should I bother?"

"Because I don't intend to spend the rest of my life watching over my shoulder for your friend to come after me with vengeance in his heart," Boudicca explained. "If you cannot convince me that you deserve to live, then you must convince him that you deserve to die, or I will claim two heads today."

"Overconfidence will get you killed as surely as incompetence," Methos warned her.

She whipped out her dagger, cut a deep slash across his chest, and sheathed the weapon again before he even realized what she had done. When he finally gasped at the pain, she smirked and told him, "So will pissing me off. Now, finish the story."

With a soft sigh of resignation, Methos cast a worried glance at Macleod and picked up where he had left off.

_Our stories were so similar that I was convinced Boudicca and I had been brought together for a reason. I told her of the oasis where I grew up, what I could remember of my mother and father, sisters and brothers. I described the lean years that came as the oasis went dry, the decision to leave our home before we died of thirst, and the sandstorm that killed my family. I talked about my wandering, alone in the desert, dying of thirst and hunger again and again, until I was taken in by a tribe of nomads. I told her about my first wife, a beautiful Bedouin woman, murdered by the Pharoah Djer's soldiers in the Smiting of the Sinai and how, after Djer, who also happened to be Immortal, had pardoned me for stealing figs and trained me to be his successor, I killed him with a poisoned dart, wrapped him in mummy's bandages, and placed him in a tomb before he could revive, ensuring that he would suffer a repeated waking death for all eternity for having killed my mortal wife. I spoke of the years I spent living among the Egyptians and the time I spent studying with Sun Tzu, and she said she was glad she had spared the philosopher-warrior's head._

_From my recent history, I told her about the days I spent in Capernaum before the caravan left for Rome, how we were set upon by bandits and sold into slavery. I described my life in Petronius's household, how good it was in comparison to most other slaves, and how horribly it ended. She understood better than most, that it doesn't matter how well a slave is treated, if he is not a free man, then he is still a slave. I told her how Constantine rescued me from Druscilla's cross, helped me start a new life, and gave me letters of introduction that got me a warm welcome wherever I went in the Empire._

_Boudicca agreed with me that our lives had followed similar paths and that we were fated to meet. She understood why I loved the life that Rome had given me and why I couldn't love the Empire the way she loved the Iceni, and she recognized the risk I would be taking to help her and the loss I would suffer if I were found out. I felt that I could trust her, at least as much as I trusted anyone, and I believed that she trusted me. By the end of that evening, we had formed an alliance with the express intent of saving the Iceni from Roman conquest._

"An alliance which you shattered barely a year later with your cowardly betrayal, you _'n ddi-asgwrn-cefn sacha chan cacha_ _(1)_," Boudicca interrupted.

"I did _not_ betray you!" Methos insisted. "If you would let me explain . . ."

"There is no excuse for what you did," Boudicca cut him off. "You promised to help us defeat the Romans, and then you disappeared when we needed you most. If that is not betrayal, I don't know what is. Tell your friend, Macleod, how you came to 'help' us," she ordered. "Then I will tell him of your treachery, and he can decide for himself whether your head is worth his concern."

Methos glared at her defiantly, but her determination was greater and eventually he capitulated. Dropping his gaze and hanging his head, he continued.

_On the second day of my visit, over a midday meal of hearty stew served in chewy, crusty bowls of bread, with a bowl of pickled onions and a plate of fresh sliced apples layered with thin slices of cheese to share between us, I asked to see Prasutagus._

_Boudicca said I could not. "My king would not wish anyone to see him in his current condition," she told me, "least of all a Roman."_

_"But I am not any Roman," I reminded her smugly. "I am your Roman ally, advocate, and spy."_

_"And your friendship is most appreciated," she replied. "But Prasutagus has asked that even his own daughters be kept away from him. The girls try to be obedient, but they love their father and they miss seeing him. So as long as they do not linger too long, the servants pretend not to see when they sneak in for a visit and I pretend not to know what secrets the servants are keeping from me. Mine is the only company he allows, and I will not disrespect him by bringing you to see him against his wishes."_

_"If I am to help save his kingdom for his heirs," I responded, "then I need to speak with him. I need to be certain that he understands the dangers his household and especially his wife and daughters will be facing. Please ask him if I may speak with him."_

_Boudicca fixed me with a stern glare. "That will _not _be possible," she insisted with a note of finality in her voice. With a quirk of her brow, she told me there was more to her message than the words she was saying._

_"Are you telling me . . ."_

_She nodded. "For more than two cycles of the moon already," she said. "He asked me to rule as regent until the girls are ready. The request was duly witnessed some four months ago according to our tradition by his eldest brother, his manservant, his daughters, and his closest ally at the time, Catavignus of the Trinovantes. _I _have seen how the Romans operate. _I _know the risks we all are facing, and _I _have made sure Rheiba and Oidhaeche understand them as well. I left it to them to choose whether to claim their inheritance as equals to the Emperor or capitulate to Rome, and they have chosen to fight for their crowns, their lands, and their people."_

_I was dumbfounded. Prasutagus had been dead for two lunar cycles and no one in Camelodunum had heard the news! How had they kept the secret for so long? Why? Having done so, how would they present the corpse when they did announce his death? It was common among the native tribes for clan leaders to view the body when they came to pay their last respects, and certainly months of decomposition would be noted._

_As if sensing my thoughts, Boudicca explained. "There are many ways to preserve a body, Juventius, and I have traveled enough to have learned most of them, I think. Following his death and according to his wishes, my late husband's corpse was gutted and washed. His brains were scooped out through his nose with a long-handled spoon, and then his empty skull was rinsed clean with clear spring water forced up his nose using a clyster made from a pig's bladder. His corpse and innards are now pickling in separate vats of brine much like that which was used to preserve the onion you just popped into your mouth." _

_When I swallowed, the onion went down like a stone and seemed to want to come back up again. _

_Boudicca curled her lips into a mischievous smirk and said, "Don't worry. We used fresh brine and clean jars for the foodstuffs."_

_I feigned relief, but honestly, I was appalled not only at the manner in which she had dealt with her husband's mortal remains but also with the calm, businesslike way she was describing it. I'm not a particularly sentimental person, but somehow, I thought a dead man's wife should be._

_"Make no mistake," she told me. "This is not just the whim of some poor widow gone mad with grief. In the last weeks of his life, Prasutagus and I discussed how we should handle his death. You see, many of the Iceni would regard it as a bad omen to bury their king at the beginning of the fall harvest. The harvest is a time to take from the earth what she has given us. To return to her something so exalted as a king could be perceived as an insult. Instead we will announce his death some twelve nights hence to allow the clan leaders and neighboring tribes to pay their respects. We used pale apple vinegar so that his flesh will not stain as it would with the red vinegar that comes from Roman grapes, and once his corpse is rinsed and his guts sewn back inside him, we will wrap him in a winding sheet soaked with lavender oil and rosewater and packed with sweet-smelling herbs to hide the smell of pickling so none will know he has been gone so long. Then we will bury him the night before the solstice festival with the appropriate speeches and incantations so that everyone will see his spirit reborn in his wife and daughters when the old year gives way to the new and we rise against the Romans."_

_Oh, I could see that I had sorely underestimated Prasutagus and his women! Though I could not convince myself that the princesses' affection for me was anything but sincere, I had to wonder now if they have been instructed to curry my favor in hopes of winning my support later. I also wondered how much of the elaborate scheme was Boudicca's invention, and what had come from Prasutagus himself. I suspected that most everything after naming the princesses co-heirs with the Emperor was Boudicca's planning, for while Prasutagus was reasonably clever, he had not struck me as imaginative enough to dream up a plot as cunning as this._

_We finished our meal in silence. I didn't know what to say, and Boudicca seemed to think she had said all that was necessary. When my stew was gone and the last slices of apples and cheese had been eaten, I asked Boudicca if I might speak to each of the princesses privately. In Rome it would have been an extraordinary request, a man asking to have time alone with a blossoming young woman, but the Iceni had different views on a woman's virtue, virginity, and honor. As far as I could tell, so long as she did not fall pregnant before her marriage, and being married, so long as she was not caught fornicating with a man other than her husband, an Iceni woman was free to associate with whomever she chose, whenever and wherever, with or without an escort. Boudicca naturally agreed to let me interview the princesses, and then extended me more courtesy than I had any reason to expect._

_"Once you are satisfied that they comprehend the gravity of their proposed undertaking, Juventius, find yourself a quiet place to think, and make sure _you _understand it as well," she said. "If, by the evening meal, you have changed your mind about helping us, you will be free to go. You have my word that no harm will come to you so long as you do not betray us. Reveal our plans to the Romans or abandon us after you have agreed to help, and I swear to you now, I will personally carry your head on a pike through every Celtic town and village from here to Maridunum to Durovernum and back before I give it to my nephews to use as a ball for sport."_

_If there was one thing I had quickly learned to admire about Boudicca, it was that she was plainspoken and not the slightest bit coy. I gave her a nod and went off to find the princesses._

_TBC_

(1) Spineless sack of shit, in 'Iceni'.


	11. Rebellion and Surrender

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off centre, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Eleven  
><strong>__**Rebellion and Surrender**_

_"I would sooner die fighting for our freedom from Roman oppression than see my people live as slaves," little Oidhaeche echoed her sister's sentiments from an earlier conversation as we walked in the garden._

_"Do you even know what that means?" I shouted at her, incensed that this lovely child would so eagerly throw her life away on a lost cause._

_Oidhaeche stopped and turned to face me, her great dark, eyes shining in her luminous, pale face._

_"If we lose, then it will mean that I will be forever young," she said, and already she had broken my heart. If only she could know what that statement meant to our kind. "I will never know a man nor bear children nor tend a fire in my own hearth. I will never grow wrinkles nor go grey, and no one will remember my name." (1)_

_Then she straightened her backbone and tilted her chin defiantly. "But I would sooner be forgotten than be remembered as Oidhaeche, the Queen who abandoned her people to Nero."_

_It sickened me to think of what the Romans would do to this child if she were to oppose Nero, and in my desire to save her from herself, I grew mean and hurtful. _

_"There are worse fates than death, little girl," I hissed, "and many, truly terrible ways to die." Then I grabbed her and groped her in a most unseemly manner. When she stomped on my foot, kicked me in the knee, and drove her elbow into my gut, I let her go because I only wanted to scare her, not to harm her._

_She wheeled on me and slapped my face hard. When she swung at me again, I grabbed her slender wrist and squeezed until I felt the bones grind together. It was destroying me to hurt her, but better a little pain from me now than what Decianus would have his men do to her if I could not convince her to yield to Rome._

_"I have seen what the Roman soldiers do to our women for sport, Juventius," Oidhaeche said as she struggled to get away from me. "I had only hoped that you were not like them. I have no illusions that Roman retribution will be anything less than brutal and degrading."_

_I let her wrist go, and she fell hard in the muddy garden path. Laying there at my feet in her soiled dress, she glared up at me with eyes that glittered like glass, and said, "Do not think I do this out of some smothering sense of duty that prevents all rational thought. I am a queen, and as a queen, I am one of the few Iceni who has a choice. I choose freedom for _all _my people!"_

_With that, Oidhaeche scrambled to her feet and fled in tears. I stalked off into the woods to brood._

"She told me about that conversation," Boudicca said, interrupting Methos's story. "You broke her heart."

"I was trying to save her life!" Methos snapped, and winced as his pierced lung reminded him that it was not quite healed yet.

"You were trying to undermine us from the outset," Boudicca accused.

"Oh, yes, of course I was, which is why I warned no one when I knew you were marching on Camulodunam and let you systematically level the city before you moved on to crush the Ninth Legion," Methos agreed sarcastically. "It's why I ran my horse into the ground to tell you Decianus had fled to Gaul and that you could raze Londinium without opposition after Suetonius evacuated it because he had too few men and they were far too tired after marching from Mona to stand against you there. It's why I warned you to be quick about taking Verulamium before Suetonius could gather more reinforcements from the north.

"Yes, I wanted you to fail, Boudicca!" Methos ranted angrily. "So I watched your people sacrifice to their gods, debauch themselves in celebration of their victories, and looked the other way when they were impaling Roman women on spikes, hacking off their breasts, and sewing them to their mouths. What the hell was that, anyway? Some bloody pagan ritual?"

In his fury, Methos would have carried on, but the strain of his raging had further wounded his still-healing lung and suddenly he was coughing and wheezing painfully again.

Boudicca was very still and very quiet, and very, very angry. "Suitable punishment for invaders," she replied softly.

"They were settlers, merchants and tradesmen, come to make a living, not soldiers," Methos told her.

"They were Romans come to grow fat off our lands and our labor," Boudicca countered.

"They were defenseless women and children your people abused!" Methos shouted, blood spraying from his lips.

"And my daughters were just little girls, but you looked the other way when the Roman soldiers raped them!" Boudicca screamed back.

"You had them brainwashed into thinking that they were destined to be queens!" Methos sobbed. His words as fervent as ever, but barely more than a whisper and touched with a faint burbling sound. "What did you expect me to do in the face of such conviction? I warned you! I warned them! I tried to scare them off!"

"You could have protected them!"

"And then what?" Methos demanded. "Tell me, what then? Decianus would have jailed me at best, sent be back to Rome to be executed as a traitor at worst. How, then, would I have been any use to you?"

"Were you any use to us at all?" Boudicca asked quietly, and then she turned to Macleod.

_After Decianus had me stripped and publicly flogged, he ordered my daughters raped, my household pillaged, my relatives stripped of their lands and titles and sold into slavery. It was an all-out act of war. We fled to the house of our ally, Catavignus, a nobleman of the Trinovantes, to lick our wounds and plot our revenge. It took some convincing, but Catavignus eventually agreed to grant our Roman 'ally', Lucius Juventius Quietus, safe passage, and we sent Haerviu to contact him. _

_Our plan was simple. Juventius was in a position to know the army's movements, I had a cadre of boys who were fleet of foot and could blend in at the market. They would make contact with him and carry his messages to me. We would attack where he sent us._

_Camulodunum, our first battle, was ostensibly chosen by traditional divination. I rolled a hare up in my robe, shook it loose, and we marched in the direction it ran. Our first battle was such a rout that Decianus fled Brittania and Suetonius left Mona to try to put us down. Morale was high and other clans flocked to join us. The Ninth Legion crumbled to dust beneath our feet, and by the time we reached Londinium, our numbers had more than doubled and Suetonius was running like a hare from the wolf. Londinium fell like a child's play fort made of rocks and sticks._

"And that is where your people lived up to the name barbarians," Methos interjected tiredly. "Londinium fell because they could not fight."

"It was war," Boudicca said. "In an age and a land where there were no rules. Women and children died."

"They did not die," Methos contradicted her. "They were tortured to death."

"This from a man whose armies crucified opposing forces by the thousands," Boudicca said. Then she dropped her voice to a dangerous pitch. "I know what you are doing, Juventius." She used the Roman name by which she had known him to remind him of the times they were discussing. "Using modern sensibilities to shame me for my actions will not work. Mine is an ancient rage, and only ancient blood will slake my thirst for vengeance."

"Funny," Methos said, striving for a light, sardonic tone, "I thought this was supposed to be a court martial. Wouldn't that make it about _justice_ rather than _revenge_?"

Boudicca's eyes flashed green fire, and before Methos even had the chance to realize how badly he had miscalculated her, she whipped out her dagger and threw it with such force that it buried itself to the hilt in his chest. So skilled was her aim that even from ten paces, her blade found its mark in one of the few tiny spots not occupied by heart, lung, or a major blood vessel. Methos opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so intense that he could only manage a tiny gasping breath . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and it was a good thing she walked away from him then, or he just might have begged her to let him die.

Macleod choked back bile as he watched his friend suffer in his bonds. He was convinced that Boudicca still held some shadow of affection for Methos, because no one could hate that much unless they also loved the object of their hatred at least a little bit. If Macleod wanted to save his friend's head, he would have to find a way to remind her of the love they had once shared. It wouldn't be easy because she was still so very angry that she might just take both their heads if he pushed the wrong buttons, but it appeared to be Methos's only hope.

As Boudicca stalked past him on her way out of the basement, Macleod said earnestly, "You can't leave him like that."

She turned to face him and it took a conscious effort on his part not to cringe from her glare. "Why not?"

"It would be torture," Macleod said.

"So what?" Boudicca replied. "You heard him. I've used torture before. Doesn't bother me."

"Aye," the Highlander agreed. "And I heard you, too. It was war, in a time and place when there were no rules. Here and now, there are rules, and torture breaks all of them."

"As far as I am concerned, that war isn't over until he loses his head or I do," Boudicca snarled. "Your modern rules do not apply."

"Then at least think about how you'll feel if you come to realize he really wasn't to blame for the Romans defeating your army," Macleod said. "You act like you want to be fair and just. You were revered by your people as a noble queen and valiant warrior. If, in the end, you find out he is innocent of your accusations, how will you face yourself?"

"You poor, benighted, Highland fool," Boudicca said pityingly. "Don't you realize that this show is all for your benefit? I _know_ what happened. I only want him to tell you so that when I take his head, and I _will_ take the craven bastard's head, you will know he is guilty and that he deserves to die."

Crouching to look Duncan in the eye, she said, "I know you by reputation, Macleod, and I don't want to have to fight you, not because I am afraid to face you, but because I don't want to have to be the one to take your head. I am of the opinion that we need more good men like you in the game to counterbalance the vermin like him."

As if there were any doubt about the identity of the vermin in question, Boudicca glared in Methos's direction and added, "It improves the odds of someone worthy winning the prize."

"And who are you to decide he's not worthy?" Macleod questioned.

"Who are you to decide he is?"

"I am his friend," Mac replied.

"Which creates a clear conflict of interest," Boudicca smirked.

"No more than your vendetta does for you," Macleod countered.

"And so we are at a stalemate that will only be resolved when he finishes his confession," Boudicca said on a sigh.

She rose and turned to leave once more, and Macleod blurted out the one word that came to mind. "Abomination!"

"What?" Boudicca turned back to him in confusion.

"If you won't recognize modern rules of warfare and if you're so convinced that he is guilty, then at least acknowledge your actions for what they are!" he demanded. "You didn't meet him in open warfare; you had your lackey poison him and bring him here as a captive while he was incapacitated. Now that he is restrained and defenseless, you hurt and abuse him under the pretense of extracting a confession. It's no different than a monstrous child pulling the wings off butterflies."

"It's his just punishment for all the lives that were lost on his account!" Boudicca defended herself.

"A life for a life, Boudicca!" Macleod shouted back, praying that his words wouldn't provoke her to make them fact. "If you have already decided he's guilty, then he's right and this has _nothing_ to do with justice. You're torturing him just for spite, and that is an abomination that shames you now, the memory of the warrior queen you once were, and the legacy of the people you led."

Fast as lightning and flashing just as brightly, Boudicca's sword was again at the Highlander's throat, this time, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. "If you want to keep that silver tongue in your pretty head and that pretty head on your broad shoulders, you'll be more mindful of what you say to me, Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," she said almost pleasantly.

"If you want to shut me up then prove me wrong," Macleod hissed through clenched teeth, careful not to move his jaw too much for fear of making the sharp blade cut deeper. "Pull out the dagger, cut him down, and let him rest. Then, the two of you can finish telling the story, and either you will believe him, or I will believe you."

For a long moment, Boudicca glared murderously into Macleod's eyes. He could see the war waging within her, if not between her love and hate of Methos, then at least between her long held anger and her sense of decency. For a moment, the blade pressed still harder into his skin and he was afraid even to swallow. Then, with an animal growl, she sheathed the sword, turned away and stalked back to where Methos hung from his wrists, panting and whimpering softly in pain.

Under other circumstances, Methos might have resented Macleod's interference on his behalf, but at the moment, he was in too much pain to feel anything but gratitude. He was able to breathe just enough to keep from passing out, but his lungs still burned for want of oxygen. With every tiny, gasping breaths, agony lanced through his chest from where Boudicca's blade ripped and tore at flesh that was continually trying to heal itself around it. Unconsciousness or even a mortal death would have brought welcome relief, but his survival instinct, honed over five millennia, would not allow him to simply stop breathing. One way or another, he needed help.

He missed most of Macleod's conversation with Boudicca but did hear him yell something about a life for a life. He wanted to warn the Highlander not to give her any ideas, but it was hopeless. He couldn't take in enough air to speak, let alone call across the room. Macleod said something else that touched a nerve, and Boudicca had her sword back to the Scotsman's throat. Again he wanted to call out, to tell Boudicca to settle her score with him and leave his friend out of it, but he was utterly helpless. After a little more conversation, the fiery redhead turned from Macleod with a growl and stalked back to Methos.

"Please," he begged, voice barely a whisper, when she stopped before him.

"What?" she demanded, roughly pulling his head up by his hair so she could see his face.

His reaction was to scream in pain as the action jostled his entire body, including the knife in his chest, but he had no air, so he only managed to produce an agonized grimace.

Shaking him slightly, Boudicca said, "I didn't hear you! Speak up _triufaisagh_ _chi_." (2)

Methos took a moment to compose himself. He didn't want her to know how much power she had over him right now, how close he was to breaking, but he couldn't do anything about the tears of agony trailing down his cheeks.

The thought of power gave him an idea of how to take it from her, and somewhere inside of him, the master puppeteer was smirking arrogantly. Gathering himself to face the pain that would come with speaking more than a word or two, he forced his lungs to take a full breath and said plainly, "Please, I've had enough. Just finish it."

"Methos, no!" Macleod shouted from across the room.

"Are you actually begging me to take your head?" Boudicca asked in wonder.

Methos gave an ambiguous tilt of his head that might have been a nod. "I w-want this to end," he gasped pitifully.

"Why?"

_Oh, bloody hell! _Methos cursed. This was something he hadn't foreseen. _She wants an explanation! Women! They always have to _understand_!_

"Y-you're . . . right," he panted, all his fortitude spent on the few sentences he'd just uttered. "I . . . failed you. . . . Doesn't matter . . . how . . . or wh-why. . . . I deserve . . . to die."

Boudicca drew her sword, and Methos had no doubt it was sharp enough to cut through both his arms as well as his neck if she decided to give him what he had requested. Closing his eyes and trying quickly to make his peace, he heard Macleod shouting and struggling in his bonds. Then Boudicca growled low in her throat, the sword whistled through the air, Macleod roared with fury and . . . nothing happened.

Boudicca stopped the killing stroke without ever touching him. Methos could hear her breathing hard, and then she screamed like a mad banshee, a long ululating string of curses that was neither English nor Iceni nor any of the other half-dozen languages he knew she spoke. The sword was thrust back into its scabbard, and Methos heard her boots thumping against the concrete as she strode away from him, and then turned and came back, and then walked away again, and back, and he had to work hard to hide a grin. He had her pacing. That was _good!_

The amusement faded quickly as he felt her breath hot on his face. "You will not get the relief of the final Death so easily," she told him. "Not until you have told Macleod what you did to us. I want him to hear it from your own lips, not how you 'failed' us," she said the word with disdain, "but how you _betrayed _us," she finished with righteous indignation.

Then he felt her touch on the dagger in his chest and couldn't stifle the small whimper of pain. She twisted it, and he groaned in agony, tears forcing their way from his eyes once again. Finally, with a grunt of effort, she yanked it from his chest, and Methos fainted in relief.

TBC

**Reviews feed the muse.**

(1) The fact is, no one does remember the names of Boudicca's children. I made up Oidhaeche and Rheiba.

(2) Filthy dog in 'Iceni'.


	12. Manipulations

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

**A/N:** I just finally realized it is MacLeod, not Macleod. Apologies to any I have offended or annoyed. I might have been mistaken, but at least I was not inconsistent.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Twelve  
><strong>__**Manipulations**_

As MacLeod watched, Boudicca walked a slow circle around Methos, poking him with her knife and planting her boot in his back to set him swinging. Duncan could still feel the ancient Immortal's presence and knew his friend had not died a mortal death, so he had to assume the lunatic woman was trying to ascertain whether he was truly unconscious or only pretending to be.

"You've treated him brutally," MacLeod called to her. "He probably collapsed from shock."

"I surmised as much," she replied, "but he's a clever bastard. It never hurts to make absolutely sure."

"He might still die of it," Duncan continued. "He needs rest, warmth, and nourishment. Why don't you cut him down? Let me loose and bring me a blanket and a glass of orange juice. I'll look after him."

Boudicca seemed to consider his suggestion and then wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "He's tough. He'll survive." Then she shrugged. "And if he doesn't he'll come back, just like you and me."

"And then what?" Mac demanded. "You'll torture him some more?"

"_Punish_ him," Boudicca corrected.

"You still haven't proven he's done anything wrong," MacLeod argued. "You're using your 'punishment' to make him confess. That's a definition of torture if ever there was one."

Boudicca stalked over to where MacLeod sat on the floor still chained to the support pillar. "You are as clever and honourable as your reputation suggests," she said. "But with him, you are also as stupid and as loyal as a blind cur dog that he has given a home."

When MacLeod's only response was to tilt his chin defiantly, she continued. "I can't really blame you. It's something we have in common, you and I, although I was more like the favourite bitch he fed scraps from the table."

MacLeod refused to speak, but he couldn't completely suppress the curious expression that flitted over his face. It was all the encouragement Boudicca needed to resume her tale.

"Juventius . . . Methos . . ."

"Adam?" MacLeod suggested, trying to keep up the ruse that he didn't know him by any other name.

Boudicca sucked her teeth at him. "Whatever you want to call him, it still means traitor as far as I'm concerned."

"Why?"

_Juventius, as he called himself at the time, gave us good information for several months. Thanks to him, we knew Camelodunam would fall easily, so I was able to encourage the hare I used for divination to run in that direction by the way I dumped him from my skirt. It was Juventius who told us the Ninth Legion was undermanned and that we could crush them if we moved quickly. He also kept us up-to-date on the movements of the major players in the region – Decianus, Suetonius, the rival tribes to the north and west._

_Once or twice a month, he found an excuse to leave Camelodunam, even during the rebuilding after we levelled it, and he brought me maps. He showed me the weaknesses in the Roman cities and helped me plan strategy. And through the weeks of working closely together, we became lovers. _

"Have you ever made love to one of our kind, MacLeod?" Boudicca interrupted her reminiscing to ask him.

"Aye," he nodded.

She smiled wistfully. "Then you know how their Presence and the sensations of love-making can overwhelm the senses and muddle the mind."

"'Tis true the physical experience with an Immortal partner is incomparable to anything you could have with a mortal," he agreed. "But I've always found it is the love, and not the sex, that makes it hard to think straight; and that's the same with mortal and Immortal partners alike."

Boudicca scowled. "Love?" she grumbled. "_Steud_ _cachu_!" (1) With a snort she resumed giving him the untold story of the long-forgotten rebellion.

_One night in our tent, Juventius told me he wanted me to whisper his real name when we made love. When he told me who he was, I found I couldn't even speak the word. There was no way to make him prove it, but I had heard among our kind stories of the Ancient One. I knew how dangerous it could be to claim to be Methos. For him to entrust me with such a secret, well . . . I don't know if he ever realized it, but the same boys who relayed information from him to me were also tasked with verifying whatever he told us. After that night, I told them they no longer needed to double check anything._

_Catavignus_ _warned me against getting too friendly with our Roman informant and giving him too much trust, but I was coy with Catavignus. Quoting Sun Tzu, the philosopher warrior who had killed my master Shun, I told him I was just seeking to know the enemy as well as we knew ourselves that we might not be imperilled in battle. The words made me sound wiser than I really was. The truth was that I was fool enough to think I loved Juventius, and if we cannot trust those we love, who can we trust?_

_I should have realized he was up to something. He was, after all, a Roman, at least in that lifetime, and only an Immortal conqueror could have been so dispassionate and eminently practical about sacrificing one city after another to our army. I should have known it was all leading to some great trap, but my people were flush with triumph and eager to claim their birthrights. I was riding a tidal wave of victory into a history where I would be hailed as the saviour Celtic Briton and my daughters would rule as just and noble queens for generations._

_I was so bloody arrogant! Only after he betrayed us did I realize that he was merely filling the hole between my thighs left by my husband's passing in order to distract me from his real purpose._

_After Verulamium, Methos brought me word that Suetonius was preparing a trap on Watling Street somewhere along our way to Letocetum. The great general had found a small valley with a narrow entrance and high walls to protect his rear. We could only attack from the front, there was no room to flank them, and the entrance to the valley was so narrow that only a fraction of our forces could engage at any one time. The rest would have to clamber over the bodies of the fallen to fight._

_We Celts were a rough-and-tumble lot, but we were no fools. We knew what Suetonius lacked in numbers, his army more than made up for in weapons, training, and discipline. We were a disorganized mob of farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen armed with kitchen knives and garden tools. The Romans had disarmed us following the failed rebellion of a generation earlier, so even if we could have acquired proper weapons, except for myself and Catavignus, who was barely in his teens at the time of the last uprising, the only ones among us who had experience wielding them were now feeble old men. Besides their superior weapons, the Romans also had armour, shields, and a general trained in military strategy. Our victories up to then had come at the expense of unprotected cities and exhausted armies. Suetonius and his men were now rested and ready for us. We might have outnumbered them by a factor of four or five to one, but Catavignus and I knew there was no way we could overrun them this time._

_I wanted a siege. We were forty or fifty thousand to their ten. We could have formed a ring of warriors two or three deep all around the rim of the valley and just waited._

_"You don't want to do that," Methos interrupted as I explained my idea. "Suetonius and his men are well provisioned. They could hold out for months. Your army is dependent on what you pillage from the towns you raze and any game you can scare up in the surrounding countryside. You wouldn't be able to feed your people for a week."_

_Catavignus_ _simply wanted to go elsewhere, to continue our pattern of attack on a different target. "Let Suetonius come for us on open ground," he said. "We'll fight him where we can manoeuvre and our numbers will be more of an asset than a hindrance."_

_"That would be a mistake, too," Methos said. "Ignoring him now will give him a chance to call in reinforcements from Rome, establish a proper base of operations, and plan a long-range strategy. This sudden rebellion could become a drawn-out war, and that is the last thing you want. Your people need to plant crops and raise sheep on the same lands that would be your battlefields while Suetonius would have uninterrupted supply lines from as far away as Judea. Your army would starve in a year, if the legions didn't crush you first."_

_Catavignus_ _and the others looked to me for a decision. It was up to me as the leader of the rebellion to choose between a bad idea and a worse idea. I turned to Methos, who was looking down his nose at me like a schoolmaster who'd been mildly disappointed by his prize pupil, and suddenly I realized what he was doing. I had often seen that smug expression during our love-making, usually as he was about to make me fly apart whether I wanted it or not. While I quite enjoyed being thoroughly outmanoeuvred in the privacy of my tent, in the war council, in front of half a dozen kings and clan chieftains, was hardly the appropriate place for it. _

_While Celtic women were permitted to own property, run businesses, fight beside their men, and even rule their people, military strategy was still one of the few responsibilities primarily viewed as a male occupation. Women were considered too erratic because of their monthly cycles and too soft because of their tender caring for children to lead an army. I was only allowed to take charge because, besides being Prasutagus's wife and the Roman's most prominent victim, I stood a head taller than most of my men, could wield a sword better, and came from the western Isles. They assumed I was a Druid and feared my magic. It was through my practice as a midwife and healer in the decade prior to my husband's death that I forged alliances and structured treaties with many of the surrounding tribes and villages, and still, my position was tenuous at best. In the war council, I had to be better than the others – stronger, cleverer, more determined, more eloquent – better in every way, just to be thought equal. _

_If I handled it wrong, Methos's little display of superiority would cost me years of work spent earning the trust and respect of the men around me. My ego wouldn't suffer if they didn't look to me for guidance, but with the rebellion under way, the tribes needed a strong leader. The others accepted Catavignus as my equal in battle and followed his orders without question, but they did not give him the same support in the council. I was as much a symbol as a ruler. Without the popular figurehead queen who was brutally abused by their oppressors, the tribes would splinter into half a dozen factions, each vying for an advantage. My Roman spy, ally, and lover needed to learn a quick, harsh lesson about showing his queen the proper respect._

_He must have realized he had angered me a heartbeat before I showed him my temper, because I saw his eyes widen just before I kicked at the legs of his camp stool. The wood splintered like kindling and dumped him on his arse on the muddy floor of the council tent. He hadn't yet hit the ground when I had my sword out and pressed against his throat, my knee at his back and my free hand tangled in his hair. _

_"My threat to have your head on a pike if you betrayed us wasn't just rhetoric, Roman," I hissed in his ear just loud enough for those nearest us to hear. _

_He didn't dare protest or struggle, but merely waited to see what I would do._

_TBC_

(1) Horse shit!


	13. Truth

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Thirteen  
><strong>__**Truth**_

"At the time, I thought he was just having an innocent bit of fun with me and didn't understand what a serious impact his actions could have on the Celtic alliance," Boudicca said. "It was only later that I realized he knew exactly what he was doing by trying to make me ask him, 'What shall we do now?' like some pathetic Roman female who had never been anything but daughter, wife, and mother and had never had to decide anything more important than how to pleasure her husband."

"I was trying to ingratiate myself to you and your allies," Methos grumbled in a most annoyed tone.

Boudicca whirled on him. "You're back with us," she commented sounding half disappointed, half disgusted.

"I am," he said, sounding as if the respite of unconsciousness had done little to revive him. "Even then, you underestimated yourself. Those men would have followed you naked through fire. I couldn't have undermined you if I had been trying, and I was _not _trying."

"Then what were you doing?" Boudicca demanded.

"I wanted to show them that I was clever," Methos said, "that I had already identified the problem and solved it for them, that I was good for more than carrying information. I wanted to show them that I was truly on their side and that their struggle was mine as well."

"Why?" Boudicca pressed. "What did you care what they thought of you?"

"Well, I couldn't very well go back to Rome after spying for you, now, could I?" Methos said disdainfully. "Had everything gone to plan, I'd have been blamed, along with Suetonius, for losing Briton. I would have been expected to fall on my sword rather than return to Rome in disgrace. Had I taken the shame of a defeat back with me, Nero would have convicted me of treason and had me killed in the Coliseum to amuse the masses . . . even if he didn't really believe I had helped you. If I was going to stay in Briton, I'd need a job when the rebellion was over, preferably one that kept me close to you."

At Boudicca's surprised look, he said, "Do you have any idea how many times you have mentioned 'love-making' and called me your 'lover' in telling MacLeod your story. Even the Iceni had different words for love and sex and for lover and bed mate. You had led me to believe I would be nothing less than the queen's consort once the Romans were gone, and I would have been happy to accept that honour. I knew we'd never have a ''til death do us part' union like a mortal couple, but I was looking forward to being with you until you had to leave Briton. I had to contribute something. I needed to find work, and I wanted to show my potential employers my skills. I thought that much would have been obvious when I told you my plan."

"You forget that I lived to see the results of that plan," Boudicca reminded him. "Whatever I may have thought then, I soon found out that the only thing you had planned for us was disaster.

"I don't know whether he thought I was about to take his head," Boudicca said, turning back to MacLeod and resuming her story as if Methos wasn't even there, "but it didn't matter. The important thing was that my allies thought I would do it if he didn't give us something useful."

_"Clearly, you have information you have not shared with us or you would not be so quick to dismiss our ideas," I said loud enough for all to hear. "Tell us what you know, or I will paint my face with your blood before our next battle."_

_He swallowed, very carefully, his Adam's apple making the stubble from his last shave scrape against my blade to raise little speckles of blood._

_"There is a place, not on the map," he whispered, "where the wall of the cliff has eroded so that it is not so high. I can guide a troop of a few hundred men to rappel down the cliff and attack Suetonius's army from behind. It wouldn't have to be a large force to have a devastating effect."_

Recalling what he knew about Roman strategies, MacLeod nodded. "It sounds like a good plan."

On an open field, the Roman legions would surround their cavalry with the infantry. The infantry soldiers, with their interlocking shields of uniform size and shape, could form a wall of sorts, preventing enemy foot soldiers from getting close enough to attack the mounted fighters who would, in turn, throw their spears and javelins into the enemy ranks over the heads of their comrades who protected their position. With only one legion, and a vastly outnumbered one at that, if Suetonius thought his flanks and rear were protected by the geography of his position, he would have concentrated his infantry toward the mouth of the valley.

"I thought so, too," Boudicca agreed.

"And yet you lost," MacLeod said.

"We did not lose. We were obliterated!" Boudicca turned and glared daggers at Methos. "And that is why he must die."

_We had questions for him. Would three hundred men be enough or would it be better to take five hundred or a thousand? Where would we find enough ropes? What would be waiting for them at the bottom of the cliff? He had answers for everything._

_Just to prove that my . . . bed mate knew his place, I had him escorted out of the council tent and kept under guard while we discussed the plan. It was quickly decided that Catavignus's nephew, Caderyn, would lead the men who went with Methos. He had proven himself clever and calm under pressure, and he had that quality that made men want to follow him. Catavignus had wanted to go himself, but I insisted that I needed his help commanding the bulk of our army and the council was quick to agree. _

_It would be some time before we engaged the enemy, and Methos would have to go back to his normal duties as Lucius Juventius Quietus until then. When the council insisted that we have him watched during that time, I easily acquiesced, making a point of the fact that I thought it was completely unnecessary, but was willing to allow it for my allies' comfort._

_Moving an army of forty thousand involves a tremendous effort. Arms and supplied need to be coordinated, wagons assigned to each troop for hauling their materials. It seemed to take ages until, suddenly, we reached the rallying point on the eve of battle. We waited one day, and then two, and Methos never arrived. Neither did Haerviu, whom I had assigned to watch Methos until he came back to us. _

_Finally, on the third day, the war council decided we could risk waiting no longer. We would soon run out of food and would have to move on and take another city, giving Suetonius time to gather reinforcements and come after us. The order was given for Caderyn to scout the rim of the valley and see if he could find the route down that Methos had told us would be there. We would move out at sunset, regardless of what he found and attack at dawn._

_Just before the evening meal, Caderyn returned, mortally wounded. He'd been accosted by a Roman scout and had never made it to the valley. With no idea where to breach the valley, we decided to go with a frontal attack. We buried Caderyn and readied our troops, then set out marching for the valley where Suetonius was waiting._

"It was every bit the disaster for us that Dio and Tacitus claimed," Boudicca said desolately. "They only inflated our numbers to make Suetonius's victory seem more glorious for Rome. Eighty to a hundred thousand fierce Celtic warriors led by a flame-haired harpy in a chariot sounds so much more fearsome than half as many shepherds, farmers, and tradesmen armed with little more than rocks and clubs, pitchforks and kitchen knives following a tall redhead in an oxcart. I saw my own daughters cut down before my eyes; whole families, mother, father, son, sometimes a grown daughter or two, fighting side by side, hacked to pieces or felled by the spears and pikes of the cavalry and then trampled by the fighters who came forward to take their places. By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the blood of the fallen had turned the field to mud."

"There is no guarantee that you would have succeeded with Methos's help," MacLeod pointed out.

"No, but we would have had a chance," Boudicca said. "That's not the point anyway."

"Then what is?"

"We had reached a tipping point, and Methos knew it," she explained, stalking toward the object of her rage once more. "We had to either overthrow the Romans and oust them from our lands, or fail utterly and be annihilated." Reaching Methos, she leaned forward to speak into his ear. "You offered us hope. You offered us a _real chance. _Then, when we were most desperately depending on you, _you never came_!"

"_Because I was dead_!" Methos shouted back.

"What?" Boudicca actually stepped back in surprise and stood there blinking at him in confusion. For nearly two thousand years, she had believed herself and her people betrayed, and Methos's statement did not fit with that view.

"That's what I have been _trying_ to tell you," he said with considerable irritation. "I was riding to meet you when my horse startled. She threw me and I fell square on my neck, snapping it like a dry twig in full view of a dozen refugees from Verulamium on their way to Corinium. They buried me, deep in the earth, and made a cairn of stones on top of the grave to keep the animals from ravaging my corpse. I don't know how many times I died trying to dig my way out, but by the time I surfaced, months or even years later, the battle was over, the field had been cleared, and the grass had regrown. It was as if you had never been there.

"I tried to find you, but I had to be discrete," he continued. "As Decianus's vicarius, I'd become a familiar face in many of the local towns, especially when I took charge of things after he fled to Gaul, and now that I was known to be dead I couldn't very well make open inquiries. The prevalent rumour had it that you fled to the west and poisoned yourself rather than face capture, but others said you had died gloriously in battle or gone north to rally the Gaels, or even east, to the continent to enlist the aid of the Visigoths. Finding you was like trying to find a particular dandelion seed after the wind has blown the entire puff away. I eventually gave up and moved on to my next life.

"I am so, so sorry about what happened, Boudicca," he said sincerely. "I lost people I loved, too. Rheiba, Oidhaeche, Haerviu. You. But . . ." he sighed in resignation. "It wasn't my fault," he said weakly.

"What happened to Haerviu?" Boudicca asked sharply, ignoring the rest of what he'd said. The boy she had loved like a son had vanished nearly two thousand years ago, and she'd heard nothing of him since. She'd often wondered what became of him, and now was her chance to find out.

"I know you were aware that he was following you," she added. She wasn't ready yet to admit that an entire civilization had fallen victim to enormously bad luck when there was still a chance that Haerviu had suffered some kind of treachery at Methos's hand.

"He was recognized as a member of your household by one of the guards at the gates of Ratae and killed on the spot," Methos told her regretfully. "I punished the guards for not bringing him to me, ostensibly because I was not able to interrogate him before he was executed; but I couldn't kill them for it because as a Roman official, I would have been expected to sentence Haerviu to death for espionage anyway. I couldn't send word to you, because again, my local notoriety prevented me from secretly hiring someone to carry an anonymous message.

Boudicca had again gone very still. This time, she was ghost pale and staring at Methos with wide, wide eyes, seeing not him, but herself, through all the years of hate and rage and mourning for the lives, the civilization, lost. Two tears welled up in her eyes and trailed down her cheeks, and just when he thought she would be overwhelmed with the emotions, she blinked them away and unsheathed her sword.

"If what you say is true . . ." she began, using the point of her sword to tip his chin up and force him to look at her.

"It is," Methos was quick to assure her. "I swear it."

". . . then you have done nothing wrong . . ."

Methos heard MacLeod's sigh of relief, but he knew better. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

". . . and what happened is not your fault . . ."

Methos waited silently.

". . . but you must still answer for it."

"I know," he breathed.

Boudicca raised her sword. Methos bowed his head. He couldn't bear to watch it coming, not like this, not from her. He heard MacLeod shout, heard the sword whistle through the air, heard the clank of metal on metal, and collapsed to the floor screaming in utter agony. There was a tinkling sound of something metallic hitting the floor near him, and he opened his eyes to see a pair of handcuff keys lying in front of him.

"You'll find your sword on the table behind you," she said. "The keys open only your cuffs. MacLeod's are old-style and fastened with a padlock, so I wouldn't waste my time with them. I'll send Michael down with a meal for you. I'll be back when you've had a chance to recover. Then we'll settle this."

Before Methos could find the words or the actions to respond, Boudicca had left the cellar, the thump of her hard-soled boots echoing through the room.

TBC


	14. Promises

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off centre, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Fourteen  
><strong>__**Promises**_

MacLeod watched sympathetically as his friend curled into the foetal position and moaned in agony. He had suffered similar abuse at the hands of various captors in his comparatively brief four hundred-plus years, and he knew that after a certain point, the pain of strained and overextended muscles, tendons, and ligaments shrinking back to their proper lengths and healing was even worse than the initial stretching of the torture.

Duncan winced as he heard a crack like small-calibre gunshot and a strangled sob from Methos as a dislocated shoulder joint popped back into place. He wanted to comfort the older Immortal, but he was still chained to the support pillar and Methos was in too much pain to come to him. There was only one thing he could offer. He wasn't sure if his meagre assistance would be welcome, but he had to try.

"Methos?" he called softly, in a low cajoling tone. "Methos, listen to me. Just focus on the sound of my voice. Blot out the pain and listen to me. You know you're going to be all right. Pain is nothing. It's insubstantial, a figment, an abstraction. Ignore it. It's all in your mind. Just breathe and focus on my voice. Relax your muscles and let it flow out of you. Don't ball up like that. It only makes it worse. Just lie on your back or your stomach, lie flat and relax."

Eventually, Methos complied, and slowly, over the course of several minutes, working from his scalp all the way to his toes, Duncan talked him through breathing deeply as he tensed and relaxed every muscle in his body. Finally the ancient Immortal was able to sit up and then rise smoothly and gracefully to his feet.

"Thank you," he said, meeting Duncan's eyes only briefly and then glancing away as he coloured slightly in embarrassment.

"You're welcome," MacLeod replied. "Now, get your sword and break these chains and we'll get the hell out of here before that psychotic harridan comes back."

"No," Methos said simply.

"What?"

"I can't," Methos said as he moved to the table to find his sword.

"Like hell!" MacLeod snapped. "You've never been too proud to run before." When Methos scowled at him, he added, "I didn't mean that as an insult. You're just bloody good at staying alive and avoiding conflict is probably your best way of doing it."

"No offense taken, Highlander, but I had hoped you would realize that this has nothing to do with pride," the Old Man said evenly as he began a few tentative exercises with the broadsword. "The thing is, I know you. MacLeod. You don't run. I know Boudicca. She won't back down. She means to see me dead or die trying. You would kill or die to protect me because, against all odds and despite my best efforts to the contrary, you still regard me as a friend."

He stopped at the end of a lunge and gave the Highlander and tight, nervous little smile that he hoped conveyed all his gratitude along with the dread that this misadventure might have changed that.

Getting a nod from MacLeod that confirmed their tattered friendship had not yet disintegrated, he continued, "I will not see one of you kill the other over me. You're too important, too valuable to lose, the both of you. I cannot run from this challenge. Besides, if I do, she'll only follow me."

"Not if I find her first," Duncan said darkly.

"What? You expect me to believe that you have it in you to kill a woman to protect me?" Methos said scornfully stopping to glare at his friend. "I did nothing wrong, but Boudicca's entire world collapsed because of me. She has every right to challenge me. You couldn't even take Kristin's head when you _knew_ she was a serial killer and she went after Richie's little friend! I'm sorry, MacLeod, but the idea of you fighting her to defend me is . . . laughable." And to prove his point, he gave a small chuckle as he lunged.

"Please, Methos," Duncan pleaded. "Just run."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you can beat her," he said

"Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Highlander," Methos replied sarcastically as he went into a series of thrusts, parries, and slices against an imaginary opponent. Stiff joints popped and cracked like a breakfast cereal as he moved and sore and aching muscles complained silently.

"Look, under other circumstances, I'd have more confidence in you, but after what you said . . ."

"_What_ did I say?" Methos demanded sharply.

"You . . . you asked her to take your head!" MacLeod said with dubious conviction.

"I did _no_ such thing!" Methos snapped.

"Yes you did, when the knife was in your chest, you asked her to kill you and get it over with," Duncan argued.

"Don't be stupid, MacLeod," Methos grunted as he wheeled about and sliced across his invisible foe's back. "I said I'd had enough and asked her to finish what she had started, but I never asked her to take my head. I let her assume that was what I wanted, but I _did not_ ask for it."

"You told her you deserved to die!" Duncan reminded him.

"And I do, Highlander, for a multitude of reasons, many of which I hope you will never know, but I _never_ asked for it," Methos pointed out. "I want to live."

"Then what the hell were you doing?"

Swinging the sword around for a fatal blow that stopped a hair's breadth from Duncan's neck, he leaned forward and hissed into Duncan's ear, "_Think_ about it, you bloody fool! Why did she bring us here?"

"To take your head," MacLeod answered.

"Simple minds, simple answers," Methos mocked in frustration then groaned as he straightened up again. His back was still killing him.

"If all she wanted was my head, she could have had that back in the alley after her boy poisoned my beer," he reminded his friend as he started fighting with another imaginary enemy. "Use that hard Scottish head of yours to _think _for once."

MacLeod glared at his friend. "She wanted to punish you," he amended after a moment. "_Then_ she wanted to take your head."

"Right," Methos acknowledged, making a series of quick cuts at his opponent. "Taking my head was supposed to be the final act of my punishment, so what did I accomplish by letting her believe I wanted to die?"

"You . . . You . . ." MacLeod was obviously at a loss.

"If she thought I wanted to die, was it still a punishment to take my head, to grant me release?" Methos asked trying to guide the younger Immortal to what he had thought was an obvious conclusion.

"I suppose not," Duncan allowed.

"Of course not," Methos said lightly as he sidestepped an imaginary charge and hamstrung his opponent as she passed by.

"I took away her power to enforce her death penalty as a punishment by making her think I wanted it. In doing so, I gained the chance to fight for my life," Methos explained. "To rationalize it in her mind, it becomes trial by combat. If she wins, it's cosmic justice, not stooping to anything as petty as vengeance, and certainly not magnanimously granting me an end to my suffering. If she loses, she was wrong to blame me for her defeat, and I go free."

"That's all well and good," Duncan agreed. "But I still think you should just leave!"

"You are such a hypocrite," Methos snarled, attacking his secret enemy with increasing fury as his irritation with his friend grew.

"I'm what?"

"A hypocrite!" he repeated. "Do you think I don't know how you see me? Do you think I don't realize how you wish I could be braver and more honourable and more reliable, more trusting and less suspicious, like you? Do you think I don't realize how disappointed you are every time I fail to live up to the potential you think you see in me? Well, as much as I value your friendship, Highlander, I value my head more! So I run, when I can, and I dissemble and deceive and manipulate, and I'm not a very good friend because if your troubles ever threaten me, I'm going to run out on you!"

Methos was properly warmed up now, and his thrusts and cuts were coming so fast and furious that one could almost imagine he saw in his invisible opponent everything that he loathed about himself.

"Now, the one time when I want to face what I've done, _like a man_, as you might say, you sit there telling me to run. That is the epitome of hypocrisy."

"I just don't think you're ready for this fight," Duncan told him, trying for a calm and reasonable tone. "There is no shame in retreating to regroup."

"Boudicca is honourable and true to her word," Methos insisted. "She will give me adequate time to recover."

"I'm not concerned about your physical condition," MacLeod told him, and it was true. It was obvious that Methos had recovered from his ordeal and limbered up quite well. Even the sore back, which had obviously been troubling him just minutes ago seemed to have healed, but there was something else that could prove an insurmountable handicap. "You're still mourning Alexa!"

Methos was so stunned by the Highlander's charge that he lowered his sword, but so strong was his mental discipline that it allowed his imaginary foe to gain a brief advantage. He jumped back from one invisible blow, spun away from the next, and barely blocked a third. He rapidly parried a flurry of imagined strikes, feinted high and sliced low, taking out his opponent's knee. Her arms swung out to help her maintain her balance and he knocked the invisible sword from her imaginary hand. Finally, with a very real grunt and a brutal swing, he separated her head from her shoulders.

Then he reeled on MacLeod and, pressing the point of his sword against the other man's jugular, stood there breathing hard. The Highlander didn't even flinch. He just sat there, staring up at Methos with nothing but concern and compassion in his eyes. If there was one characteristic the Ancient Immortal wished he could learn from his younger friend, it was that ability to remain rock-steady and calm without suppressing all emotion.

For as long as he'd known Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander had always been able to acknowledge his feelings and still keep his wits about him in a crisis. Methos, on the other hand, had to go completely dead inside or turn mean. He wished he could use his emotions productively like MacLeod, because Boudicca had stirred up too many memories for him to go dead, and he didn't think he could be mean enough to her to gain an advantage.

But he could be mean to MacLeod.

"_Idiot!_" he sneered, then laughed viciously as he barely nicked Duncan's skin and pulled away. "Just because I grieve for her doesn't mean I want to join her! If anything, it makes me want to live all the more. As long as I live to remember her, Alexa is Immortal, too."

"I still think you should run, Methos," Duncan said. "Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day."

Methos rolled his eyes. "That would sound _so_ much more sincere if it were original," he said. "Why are you so determined to have me flee?"

"Because I don't want to see you die, you bloody fool!"

"I don't want to see me die either!" Methos shouted.

"Then why are you so determined to fight?" MacLeod demanded.

Methos sighed. "Because I am five thousand years old, MacLeod," he said tiredly. "I am the oldest Immortal, and like it or not, I don't think I am going to win the Prize. If I am going to fight anyone who has a chance of beating me, if anyone is going to take my Quickening, I want it to be one of the good ones, and despite recent evidence to the contrary, Boudicca _is_ a good one. One of the best. I offered my head to you once, and you couldn't take it then, when we barely knew each other. Even if you could take it now, since we are friends, I think your guilt would weigh so heavily on you that it would eventually keep you from raising your sword. Boudicca is not nearly so sentimental. She'll be able to use whatever power she gets from me instead of being crushed by it."

"You don't expect to win, do you?" MacLeod asked.

"I just said I don't expect to get the Prize."

"I mean here, against her," MacLeod said.

Shrugging, Methos said, "One never knows what the future holds. Believe me, Highlander, I plan to fight for my life. Boudicca will not find mine an easy Quickening to take."

"Can you kill her if you get the chance?"

"I'm hoping I won't have to," Methos said. "Now that the whole idea of a court martial and sentencing is out the window – thanks for the help with that, by the way – if I get the advantage over her, I can offer to let her live in exchange for swearing off her vendetta against me."

"And if she doesn't agree?"

"Then I guess I will find out if I can take her head, won't I?"

"And if you can't get the advantage?"

"Then she shall have mine," Methos said simply. "Which reminds me, I need to ask you a favour."

"Oh, don't worry," Duncan said. "If she takes your head, I _will_ avenge you."

"Ahh, yeah, that's just it," Methos said awkwardly. "I . . . want you to promise me that if she wins, you _won't_."

"_What_?"

"You heard me. I want you to swear to me, MacLeod, that if she wins, you won't try to kill her unless she comes after you."

"I won't make that promise," Duncan flatly refused.

"Please, MacLeod, I need you to do this," Methos asked again. "Not just because I loved her once. You know I'm not that sentimental."

"Then why?"

"Because she's right," Methos said simply. "We need as many good Immortals we can get to counterbalance all the evil that our kind has wrought in the world. She is good, and honourable, and I want her to live."

_I want her to live. _Duncan felt his stomach churn. Not so long ago, he had used similar words to stop Cassandra from taking Methos's head. She had listened to him and let the oldest Immortal live. Could he do any less?

"You know, it still sounds to me like you are planning to throw this fight," MacLeod said.

Methos laughed slightly. "Only because you're such a romantic. I won't sacrifice myself, Duncan; I promise you, I _will_ fight my best fight. If she forces me to take her head, I will do it, because I want to live; but if I die, I want her to live. Now, please, Duncan, give me your word."

_I want her to live._

"All right," MacLeod grudgingly agreed. "If she wins fairly, I won't seek to avenge you; but _only_ if she wins fairly."

"She would have it no other way," Methos assured him. "Do you swear it?"

"I swear it," MacLeod nodded. "On my honour."

TBC

**Reviews feed the muse.**


	15. Battle

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off centre, so just ignore this line.

**A/N: **Much violence, brutality, and blood ahead. For me to say that, it's really gotta be something!

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Fifteen  
><strong>__**Battle**_

The next two hours passed quietly for the two Immortals. Methos stayed limber with some stretching exercises but was careful not to tire himself with too much vigorous imaginary duelling. MacLeod quit trying to convince his friend to flee and started critiquing his technique. Neither of them was under the impression that some last minute observation or advice would be the key to saving the Oldest Immortal's head – even if MacLeod noticed some critical tell, without time or a live opponent to practice correcting it, Methos would probably make the same mistake in the heat of battle – but the activity gave them both something to do.

When Michael finally arrived with the promised meal, Methos sat on the floor beside Mac, who had gone just as long without eating, and shared his food. It was strange to have MacLeod, whose hands were still bound behind him, literally eating out of Methos's hand, but both men found they enjoyed the unusual intimacy.

As Methos pushed an oil-cured olive through Duncan's lips, he sighed and said, "Boy, does this bring back memories."

"Oh?" Duncan was curious.

"Oh, yeah," Methos said as he got a far-off look in his eyes. "I can remember the exact pattern of her multi-coloured cloak. I could draw you a perfect representation of her torque or even make a replica for you if I had any skill as a goldsmith. Give me the right selection of aromatics and I could recreate her perfume. I could prepare for you every meal I ever ate with her, show you how she plaited her hair, and sing every song she ever taught me; but except for Catavignus, whose name was recorded by Roman historians, Caderyn, whom Boudicca just mentioned today, one of our kind whom Boudicca does not know survived, and Oidhaeche, Rheiba, and Haerviu, three children whom I came to love, I can't remember a single one of the Iceni, not even the other chieftains who made up her war council."

"That's what women do to us, isn't it?" MacLeod observed, and smiled when Methos gave him a quizzical look. "They distort our perceptions, make the trivial important and the important trivial. We're late to an appointment because we happened to see a pair of earrings in a shop window that we know she will love, or we cancel a meeting to take her out to dinner for her birthday."

"I suppose they do," Methos agreed, leaning comfortably against the post where Mac was chained. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, as Methos closed his eyes and remembered.

_As a queen, she had the privilege of a tent to sleep in when most of her army slept under the open sky, or, if they were lucky enough to have a wagon, they would huddle under it when it rained. She didn't like it. _

_"How can I lead if I separate myself from my people and their troubles, Catavignus? Tell me that!"_

_"Juventius, help me explain," Catavignus pleaded, but I just shook my head. I had already done my best to convince her for the purely selfish reason that I wanted a private place for us to have sex. If Catavignus's nobler arguments failed, I knew my carnal desires would not sway her._

_"Boudicca, it is not your comfort I seek, but our peoples' cohesion," Catavignus argued. "You are as much a figurehead as a general. The pegs and pins and bindings that hold this great war machine together are made of outrage, the people's outrage at what Decianus had done to you and your daughters. The people need you as a symbol, a common cause around which the diverse tribes can rally."_

_"Fine! I will use the tent as my private quarters," she finally conceded, "but only after you have constructed a hospital tent to shelter our wounded."_

"Ohhh, she and Catavignus fought over that," Methos laughed. "The things they said to each other, MacLeod, men have lost their tongues for less."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes," Methos swore. "Such passion and intensity, it was energizing just to watch it."

_"Boudicca, don't be so stubborn!" Catavignus pleaded. "The wounded will be fine in the wagons. You are the Queen. You should have your own quarters, sooner, rather than later, as a matter of decorum."_

_Catavignus glanced at me as he expressed his concern for 'decorum'. Apparently, her feelings for me were already stronger than she had let on and more apparent when I was away than when I was with her, because that one passing look was all it took to set her off._

_"Decorum!" she shouted. "Decorum? You great stinking pile of steaming ox guts! Where, no, how, in that addled bovine brain of yours did you ever get the idea that I gave as much as a rat turd for 'decorum'?"_

_"My apologies, my Queen," Catavignus hissed. "I should have realized that you do not care for decorum when you started caterwauling like a queen cat in heat who cannot find a tom!"_

_Bless him! Catavignus had tried to keep his voice down, but by the end he was shouting at the top of his lungs. A man can only take so much before he loses his patience, and Boudicca had been doing her best for several days to find the end of his._

_Of course, at that moment, the camp had gone dead silent. Every man, woman, and child within thirty yards turned to look from Boudicca to me and back again. I was three thousand years old at the time, and I had never been so embarrassed. I think it was only my humiliation in that moment that kept me from challenging Catavignus myself. Our secret, if we'd ever had one, was out before we'd even had the chance to test the truth of it ourselves._

_Boudicca's face turned as red as her hair, but like the queen she was, she ignored the jibe and simply stated her position again. "It is a queen's duty to care for her people as well as lead them. I will concern myself with decorum when the wounded are properly sheltered."_

_Catavignus opened his mouth to retort, but Boudicca continued smoothly over him, "If you persist in pursuing this argument, you will be among them."_

MacLeod chuckled. "It sounds like insults were an art form among her people," he said.

"Indeed they were," Methos agreed. "I still use some of the best of them, when it seems appropriate. But to publicly comment on a widowed queen's choice of sexual partner, and to the queen herself no less!" He shook his head. "They must have loved each other or feared each other more than they could anger each other because I don't know how else they could have avoided coming to swords."

Methos settled his shoulders more comfortably against the pillar and folded his arms to reminisce some more. "Of course, that fight was right after Camelodunam, and morale was high. If they hadn't been so successful, their arguments could easily become more physical than verbal, and I have to tell you MacLeod, Catavignus would have come out the loser. He eventually agreed to build the hospital tent out of materials pillaged from the city, but he also insisted that Rheiba and Oidhaeche have a tent of their own to share. It was only after the hospital tent was constructed that Boudicca and I actually became lovers."

_Those were turbulent times. The Roman settlers were in a panic, wondering who would be attacked next, if they should flee, where they could go, what would become of them if the rebellion succeeded. After Decianus fled to Gaul, I was kept busy travelling from town to town quieting fears, reassuring nervous settlers, directing defence plans, all the while knowing that I would later help Boudicca plan how to take the towns I was helping to prepare for her attack._

_Sometimes it was almost unbearable for me, because some of the people I worked with were ordinary merchants, family men who only wanted to earn a living and feed their children. I wanted to tell them to flee, to leave Briton. I wanted to tell them where to go so that they would be safe, but to do so would reveal me as a traitor to Rome._

_Then, I would visit Boudicca. I would sit in her tent, dining with her and her daughters, listening to them talk for hours about their people and their beliefs and different individuals they knew among the tribes, who those people had been before Rome's invasion, and what they had planned for the future. Every time I doubted the rightness of my actions, their intimate knowledge of even the lowest members of their clan swayed me to their side once again. _

_It was through those dinners with three gossiping women that I also came to understand the Iceni people. Their religion and customs prevented any one individual from overestimating his or her importance to the universe, yet no one could overlook how much they depended on their friends, neighbours, and family. They were at once a proud and humble people who deserved the future as much as the future deserved them. _

_The population of Rome was a flock of bleating sheep blindly following a psychopathic shepherd who cared for nothing but his own comfort, amusement, and glory; and the Roman settlers in Briton, though generally decent people, only wanted to replicate the dubious splendours of their capitol. By contrast, the Iceni were a vast, rambunctious, extended family with Boudicca as their matriarch. Their queen and her daughters really knew the people, loved them, and fought to protect them and preserve their way of life, not just to win territory or collect tribute. For all the order of her rules and government, and all the beauty of her art, literature, and architecture, and all the genius of her engineering, Roman civilization simply could not equal the passion, compassion, and beauty of the Iceni culture. _

_I first loved Boudicca because of her passion for her people. I later learned to love her people because I loved her. I soon realize that the world would be no better for gaining another Roman province, but it would certainly be worse for losing the Iceni. Then, it was easy for me to betray Rome._

"That's a bit of a circular argument, isn't it?" MacLeod interrupted.

"I suppose it is," Methos smirked, "but, as a very wise friend of mine just recently said, 'that's what women do to us'."

MacLeod snorted a laugh. "Aye, I suppose it is," he said, then grew gravely serious. "The question is, what is this woman going to do to you today?"

Before Methos could answer, they both felt the overwhelming presence of a powerful Immortal. With a sigh, he lifted his sword, moved into the centre of the cellar, turned toward the door, and said, "I rather suspect we're about to find out."

When Boudicca entered the basement under her club, she found Methos waiting for her in the middle of the room, sword raised, ready for the battle to begin. Hoping to put him a little off balance, she asked politely, "Have you recovered enough to answer my challenge?"

"I have," Methos told her, "but first I have something to say."

"The time for talk is long past, _ddiwaerth 'n hen chi,_" (1) she said. "Now it is time to fight."

"Oh, come on," Methos whined, letting his shoulders droop expressively. "Even a man condemned to hang is allowed a few last words from the gallows."

Boudicca sighed. "You always did like the sound of your own voice," she chided. "Speak, but be brief, or I may just take your head while your tongue is still wagging."

"I have only three things to say," Methos assured her. "First, withdraw the challenge and there will be no hard feelings. Neither I nor MacLeod will pursue you."

"You cannot speak for your friend," Boudicca said, moving a step closer, "but it doesn't matter. The challenge stands. One of us will die today."

"I rather expected that," Methos told her, casually taking two strides back, "which brings me to my second request. I want your word that, if you should win today, you will never fight MacLeod."

"And why should I make such a promise?" she demanded.

"Because if you don't, you will have to murder me," he replied, lowering his blade. "I will not fight you unless I know the Highlander is safe from your sword."

"What's to stop him from hunting me if he knows I will not fight him?"

"He has already given me his word that he will not avenge me if you should win," Methos assure her. "As long as you leave him alone, you will be safe from him."

Glancing at MacLeod, Boudicca asked, "You made this promise?"

"Not willingly, but, aye, and I will keep it, if I must," Duncan assured her.

Glaring at Methos, she asked, "And why should I trust his word?"

"For the exact same reason that I will trust yours," the Old Man responded evenly. When she continued to resist, he added, "The world may or may not be better off without me in it. I can't even say for sure myself whether my continued life or my immediate death would be better for humanity, but I do know without a doubt that it would be worse without either of the two of you. Live and let live seems little enough to ask if you manage to kill me."

Boudicca considered a moment longer and then nodded brusquely. "You have my word. I will not hunt the Highlander _unless_ we are the last two. Then all bets are off."

Methos nodded. "Fair enough. Third, and finally, I want you to know that I forgive you."

"Forgive me?" Now Boudicca was confused, and the point of her sword dropped just a bit as she lost focus. "For what?"

Methos shrugged. "For whatever you may regret about this day," he said lightly.

"Nearly two thousand years ago, I promised to have your head if you failed my people," she reminded him. "What could I regret about fulfilling a vow that I have waited so long to keep?"

"Well, for one thing, you finally learned today that I did not betray you, but only failed you through spectacularly bad luck," Methos pointed out.

Boudicca snarled. "Shut up and fight, _hodwern._" (2)

Methos raised his broadsword and tipped it slightly in a salute and sign of respect before adopting a fighting stance.

The battle, when it finally began, was brutal and beautiful and anything but brief. Far from the refined and elegant ballet of the Spanish Mysterious Circle that MacLeod had learned from Otavio Consone, this was a primal, primitive war dance. Swords clashed and sang and Duncan could feel the energy of the two Ancient Immortals dancing over his skin like static electricity just before a thunderstorm. The combatants were well matched, and if the stakes hadn't been so terribly high, he would have found himself cheering each time the balance shifted as first one and then the other pulled off a spectacular move that would leave the opponent scrambling on the defensive.

Boudicca's advantage was that she had all the size and strength of most men coupled with the grace and agility that seemed peculiar to women. Time and again, she would move so fluidly from a block to a thrust or cut that Methos wouldn't realize he was no longer in control until he had ducked behind a support pillar and fled a few paces away to regroup.

Methos's main strengths were his cunning and his vast knowledge of sword fighting techniques. He could feint with his eyes, looking high and striking low, or he could drop his shoulder as if he was going thrust up from below as he transferred the sword to his off hand for a backhand cut to the upper body. With sudden, frightening clarity, MacLeod knew the Old Man had been holding back all the times that they had sparred.

Duncan never saw who drew first blood, and it hardly mattered. It may have been minutes or hours after the first clash of swords that he realized both Methos and Boudicca were covered in blood, some of their wounds already fully healed, some still bleeding freely. They were drenched in perspiration, breathing hard and clearly tiring. Soon the battle would be decided not by who gained an advantage, but by who made a mistake.

Methos sidestepped a thrust from Boudicca's sword that might have gutted him if she had been just a shade quicker and with a grunt of effort, he spun completely around clockwise with a swing that was surely intended to take the woman's head off. As he was turning, Boudicca pulled back, crouched low, turned one hundred eighty degrees counter-clockwise, and thrust her sword directly behind her.

Methos gasped in shock and froze in place as the Warrior Queen's blade penetrated his abdomen at a sharp upward angle, entering low in the front, grazing the upper edge of his pelvis, and protruding from his back. As his bladder voided from the entrance wound and putrid-smelling digested matter spilled out the exit wound, Boudicca stepped backwards into him, burying her sword still deeper. With sheer brute strength and a groan of effort accompanied by the appalling sound of ribs being severed from the spine she stood up straight, forcing her sword through his torso as she rose to her full height and pushed her arms up over her head.

Methos managed one strangled yelp of pained surprise before his insides spilled out and his sword fell from a nerveless hand. As Boudicca pulled her sword free of his body, he dropped to his knees. He was already dead, and the worst part of all was that he knew it. His left hand clutched frantically at the monstrous wound, trying desperately to pull the edges together so it could heal. His right arm hung limp at his side, and it was only when he looked at it, trying to will it to move that he realized she had literally cleaved him in two from the waist to the collarbone and his arm wasn't working because there were no more nerves going to it. Looking up at her, he grimaced and tried to make some sardonic comment about underestimating her determination to kill him, but his right lung had been cut away from his trachea at the bronchial tube. His last breath left him in a dramatic spray of blood, _Like wet fireworks,_ he thought as Boudicca turned on him and raised her sword to take his head.

TBC

1). Worthless old cur  
>2). Coward<p> 


	16. Resurrections

I hate how the 'share' options at the top push everything off center, so just ignore this line.

_**Legends, Love, Loss, and Surrender**_

_**Chapter Sixteen  
><strong>__**Resurrections**_

Methos's mind exploded into full wakefulness, absolute terror, and unbearable pain. Acting on instinct alone, he rolled to the side of the bed in search of his sword as he sensed on some level that he was in danger even before the prickling of his skin registered in his mind as the Presence of a powerful Immortal. The sword that should have been just an arm's length away was not there, and in pure panic he tumbled from the bed reaching for it. He caught the briefest glimpse of a statuesque redhead just before the exquisite agony of newly healing organs ripping apart from his impact with the floor made his world go dark and he knew he was dead, again.

Methos's mind exploded into full wakefulness, absolute terror, and unbearable pain. Acting on instinct alone, he rolled to the side of the bed in search of his sword as he sensed on some level that he was in danger even before the prickling of his skin registered in his mind as the Presence of a powerful Immortal. He had no idea how or why he was still alive, but he was bloody well not going to die again without a real fight. Still, he never reached the sword that should have been just an arm's length away because strong, gentle hands abruptly restrained him.

"Be still, Old Man, before you kill yourself again," a familiar voice told him.

Finally able to focus, Methos looked at the source of the voice. "M'cleod," he murmured. "Wha... How?"

"You're safe," MacLeod assured him.

"Why am I . . . ?"

"Just rest," Duncan commanded gently, and he did, still in the middle of a question, because he was too weak to do anything else.

Methos's mind exploded into full wakefulness, absolute terror, and unbearable pain. Acting on instinct alone, he rolled to the side of the bed in search of his sword . . . and stopped.

"MacLeod?" he called out raggedly, and then curled into a moaning ball.

"I'm here, Old Man," the Highlander assured him. "You're safe."

"Oh, gods!" Methos sobbed, unable to stop the tears of agony that forced themselves from his eyes. "Why does it hurt so much?"

"That's probably just your, ah, innards sorting themselves out," Mac explained awkwardly. "Boudicca sliced you open and neither she nor I had the skill to put them back together properly, so we just had to sort of dump them back inside you and let nature take its course."

"You _what_?" Methos demanded in shock, and the strain of shouting reduced him once again to a moaning, trembling wreck.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said sincerely. "We did the best we could for you, but the damage was pretty severe."

A latch clicked open, and Methos looked up, opening his eyes just enough to see who had entered the room. Recognizing the statuesque redhead and remembering that he had no sword, he tried to scramble from the bed, but MacLeod gripped his shoulders and held him still.

"It's all right," the Highlander told him. "She means you no harm. Be still and stop struggling before you kill yourself again." To Boudicca, he said, "Just leave it on the table and go. He needs more time to recover."

Boudicca did as she was told without a word. When he was sure Methos would stay put, MacLeod crossed the room to pick up the hypodermic needle Boudicca had delivered.

"What's that?" Methos asked as MacLeod approached him.

"Morphine. Enough to put down a horse, I think," he said. "It might just knock you out, it might kill you, but either way, it will stop your pain and allow you to rest. Do you want it?"

"You won't leave me?" Methos asked, hating the pleading whine in his voice.

"You have my word, I will stay here and keep you safe," Duncan promised.

After only a little hesitation, Methos nodded. Lying back on the bed, he didn't even notice when the needle punctured his skin and he soon slipped into blissful oblivion.

Methos's mind exploded into full wakefulness and absolute terror. Acting on instinct alone, he rolled to the side of the bed in search of his sword . . . and stopped.

_This is getting really old, _he thought as he dropped back into the pillows and closed his eyes. _At least I don't seem to be hurting anymore. _He gave a jaw-popping yawn. _Just exhausted. _Then his eyes snapped open. _And I still don't know why the bloody hell I'm still alive._

"MacLeod?" he called out.

The Highlander must have been only a step or two away because he was at Methos's side immediately.

"How are you feeling?"

"Surprisingly spry for a dead man, not that I'm complaining," Methos smiled warmly, touched that MacLeod had been true to his word and not only had not left him alone but stayed by his side while he slept. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure I know," Mac told him. "She just seemed to have a change of heart."

_The fight was over, except for the final blow. Boudicca raised her sword high overhead and was bringing it down in the fatal arc when she froze in mid swing and howled like a banshee. She didn't just drop her sword but threw it away from her as if it was a live and dangerous animal. Dropping to her knees, she pulled Methos into her lap and sat there, sobbing and rocking him, apologizing and pleading with him in half a dozen ancient tongues until her voice grew hoarse and she ran out of tears._

_Gently, then, she laid his lifeless form out on the concrete and got weakly to her feet. She crossed the room to MacLeod, not confidently as she had done before, but tiredly, almost creeping up to him obsequiously. Kneeling before him, she asked, "If I release you, will you help me care for him?"_

_MacLeod didn't have to think twice before nodding. Rubbing his wrists as he got to his feet, he said, "We need a needle and thread, lots of bandages, blankets, and a safe, comfortable place for him to recover."_

_She nodded, and left, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Whether it was because she knew he would never leave his friend in such a vulnerable position or because she was so distraught that she had forgotten he was her prisoner, he didn't know or care. It didn't matter. He wasn't going anywhere without the Old Man._

"There wasn't much we could do," MacLeod said. "I've never seen such a horrific injury, even among our kind. We ended up just sort of stitching your skin together and dumping everything inside to sort itself out. I would have done more if I could, but . . . you were such a mess."

Methos gave him a twisted smile. "Are you calling me a slob?"

The warped joke pulled MacLeod out of his dark memories and he almost grinned. "No, but that doesn't mean you aren't. I wish you would at least put your dirty dishes in the sink when you visit."

"I'll try to do better," Methos promised teasingly, "Might even do a load of laundry now and then." Then he looked deeply troubled. After a silent moment, he asked, "Why would she do that? After wanting me dead for almost two thousand years, why would she suddenly change her mind?"

"I don't know," MacLeod said. "She didn't tell me and I didn't ask. I figure it's something between the two of you, so if you want to know more, you will have to speak with her."

Methos nodded, still looking mildly perturbed. "Perhaps I will. How long has it been?"

"Couple of days," MacLeod said. "You killed yourself three times trying to get out of bed before you were healed and died once of sepsis."

"Three times?" Methos repeated. "Really?"

"Yes, why?"

"I only remember one."

"Consider it a blessing," MacLeod advised him. "The first time, you ripped all the stitches down your back and left half your insides in the bed before you fell dead on the floor and the second time . . ."

"I don't think I want to know," Methos interrupted, blanching a bloodless white. "Where are we?"

"Boudicca's guest room. It's evening now. She's at the club. We're welcome to stay as long as it takes for you to recover."

"Do you trust her?" Methos asked.

"Aye, I do," MacLeod nodded.

"You've already come to regard her as a friend, haven't you?"

MacLeod shrugged. "I respect her. I believe she is honourable, though her priorities are a bit off. I am grateful to her for not taking you head. I suppose, yes, I consider her a friend."

Giving MacLeod a superior smirk, Methos said, "I knew you would. The two of you are just alike, deep down, and once you got to know each other, I expected you to be friends or mortal enemies. Neither of you are the type to make mortal enemies of someone who has done you no wrong, so it had to be friends."

"And you think what she did to you did me no wrong?" Mac muttered in disbelief.

"I think, given time to calm down, you would understand her rage and her grief," Methos said. "I think you would appreciate how badly she needed it to be someone's fault, and since she and I were the only ones left, you could understand why she blamed it on me. I think you would eventually find compassion in your heart for her, because you know what it means to be cut off from your clan."

Mac's head dropped and he became sombre. Methos nudged his wrist and grinned.

"Hey, she didn't kill me, though, did she? Not for good anyway," he said teasingly. "And I have already forgiven her, so the least you can do is follow my lead."

Mac heaved a sigh and nodded. "Yes, you're right," he agreed. "If you can forgive what she did to you, then what little I suffered doesn't bear mentioning, it's just . . ."

"What?" Methos demanded in a tone that MacLeod could not deny.

"It's what she did to you I can't abide!" MacLeod said hotly.

"Why?" Methos was truly perplexed.

"Why?" Mac practically shouted. "It was torture!"

"What?" Methos yelped in shock, started to laugh, winced in pain and then forced himself to stop. "Cripes, MacLeod, to at least one of my wives, that would have been foreplay!"

MacLeod shook his head and said, "Does the phrase 'too much information' mean anything to you?"

Methos smiled at him and said. "I understand what you're saying. It was terrible, it was appalling, it was wrong, and it was bloody painful. I also understand why she did it. Her world ended in a day two thousand years ago. In her mind, it was my fault, and I wasn't there to answer for what I had done. She was settling a two-thousand-year-old grudge. The woman she is now bore Adam Pierson no ill will. She had to revert to Boudicca, Warrior Queen of the Iceni to sort things out. The woman who runs that club and the woman who tortured and nearly beheaded me have no more in common than I have with Death."

"You have told me that you and he are one and the same," MacLeod said sullenly.

"And yet, we're still friends," Methos said, as if in wonder.

Mac rolled his eyes. "But I knew you before the Horsemen."

"And I knew Boudicca before this past weekend," Methos pointed out.

"I didn't, but I understand what you are saying," Mac conceded. "I'll try to . . . accept it, but it'll take time."

"All I ask is that you try, Highlander," Methos said. "I have every confidence that you can do anything you set your mind to." Then he closed his eyes and settled back into the pillows again. Hearing his friend's footsteps, he called out, "MacLeod?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think I want to be alone yet."

"I'll not leave you," MacLeod said simply, and coming from him, Methos knew it was as good as a blood oath.

Methos drifted gradually to wakefulness and the feeling of cool hands smoothing over his brow. MacLeod's presence was an undeniable comfort, but this gentle touch was unexpectedly pleasant. Letting his eyes flutter open and adjust to the light, he felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart begin to pound when he realized it was Boudicca caressing him. Tensing, he tried to scoot away from her across the bed only to be stopped by the Highlander's solid bulk behind him.

"It's all right," MacLeod assure him. "You're safe."

Indeed, Boudicca had moved away letting Methos have his space, and he relaxed, but only a fraction.

"I'm s-sorry," she stammered anxiously. "I really am so sorry."

"Why didn't you kill me?" the ancient Immortal asked.

"I . . . I just . . ." Boudicca glanced up at MacLeod and stopped trying to speak.

Sensing that he would never know the answer to his question unless they had some privacy Methos asked, "Could you give me my sword and then leave us alone, Highlander?"

"Methos . . ." he said warningly.

"I only want it to defend myself until I am convinced she means me no harm," the Old Man assured him.

MacLeod considered his friend's statement and then retrieved the ancient broadsword from where it stood in the corner of the room. "If you need anything, just yell," he said, and left the room.

He was still weak, so it was an effort to lift the sword, but when he rested it at the base of Boudicca's throat, he let her take most of the weight and saw her wince as the point just pierced her skin.

"Why am I alive?" he demanded.

She swallowed carefully. "Watling Street," she said simply, her eyes growing suddenly bright. "I needed it to be somebody's fault. As long as I knew you were alive out there, somewhere, I had you to blame. Then I learned the truth of what went wrong. I couldn't hold you responsible anymore, but for two thousand years I had wanted you dead. I couldn't let it go that easily."

"Is that all?" he asked coldly.

"I . . . N-no," she admitted, barely shaking her head.

Methos raised one brow, and she knew he expected an explanation.

"I . . . It . . . The decision to fight that day was mine alone," she stammered. "I was angry with you for not being there as you had promised. As long as I could say it was your fault, your betrayal, I didn't have to wonder if I had led my people to destruction just to prove I didn't need the lover who had scorned me."

Methos was growing tired of holding his sword up, but judging from the tears streaming down her face, he didn't think Boudicca was in any way inclined to try to hurt him again. He finally lowered his weapon, but didn't let it go entirely. Boudicca collapsed in tears right there on the side of his bed. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to comfort her. Instead he just waited silently until she had regained control of herself.

"You still haven't told me why I am alive," he said coldly after several minutes.

She sat there, blinking at him as if her mind had gone blank. He could almost see her wits return when she gave him a little smile and said, "Telling our story to MacLeod, it woke so many memories inside me."

Her voice warmed and her smile grew and she shut her eyes. "I remember laughing when you knocked Haerviu off your horse the day you arrived. I was watching through a chink in the wall. I remember the day we played draughts and the girls humiliated you. I remember you listening with rapt attention as Rheiba, Oidhaeche, and I talked over dinner in my tent about the future and what our people would do when the Romans were gone from our lands. I remember what you and I did after the girls went off to their own tent. I remember that we had good times together. Don't you?"

_Yes_, _I do remember, but I'm not sure it matters anymore_, Methos thought. _And I'm not ready to share those memories with you, anyway._

I remember being saddle sore and exhausted for months," he said. "I remember running my poor horses into the ground to meet up with you on my way from one settlement to another. I remember labouring side by side with hardworking men and women to fortify their cities knowing that they would be dead in a few days. I remember betraying my people for you."

Boudicca dropped her head in shame.

"Why am I still alive?" Methos demanded for the third time.

"W-When I . . . Y-You . . ." She stopped and took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then spoke with forced calm. "You died the mortal death just as I was about to take your head, and your Presence disappeared. I hadn't really noticed it filling me while . . . I kept you captive, but when I lost it, I felt this great, yawning emptiness inside me, like I did after Watling Street," she explained. "Like I felt every time you left me to go back to playing Roman. I realized then that if I killed you, there would be no one left to share my memories of them, no one who had ever looked into Oidhaeche's big owl eyes or seen how Rheiba's black hair flew loose behind her when she ran, no one who ever appreciated Haerviu's grin or his wicked sense of humor."

Her chest heaved and she let go a harsh sob. It took her a moment to compose herself, but she managed to control her emotions and continue.

"I lost so much that day," she whispered. "Friends and family. My daughters. The first real home I'd had since my village was destroyed. I didn't want to lose you, too."

"So, you let me live out of what? Selfishness? _Loneliness_?" Methos said in an accusing tone. "Certainly it wasn't mercy."

"No, not mercy," she agreed. "I just . . . wanted you to live," she said. "I'd rather have you alive and hating me than gone from the world." She dropped to her knees beside the bed and clutched at Methos's hand. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Methos rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't be an idiot."

When Boudicca choked on another sob, he stroked her hair and said, "I already told you; you are forgiven."

She laughed softly and said, "I thought you were just saying that to make me think twice about taking your head."

"I was, but that doesn't mean it wasn't the truth," Methos muttered. "I have done so many things that were so much worse, with much less reason and to people who deserved so much better from me. I have no right to judge you."

She looked up to smile at him and he wiped her tears away with his thumb.

"I . . . don't know what you want from me, Boudicca," he said gravely. "I don't know if I can give you anything at all. I think you should know that I recently buried a mortal wife. I loved her very much and I am still in mourning, even though she would probably kick my arse for grieving so long for her. I don't know if you and I can be friends again, let alone have what we did back then. It may be that we part and never see each other again unless we both make it to the final Gathering. The only thing I know for certain right now is that I forgive you."

Boudicca smiled and sniffled and touched his face and said, "Thank you. I am just relieved to know that you don't actually hate me. Anything else, we can take it as it comes."

Methos nodded. "I think that would be best."

Boudicca began to pull away then, intending to leave Methos to rest a little longer, but he pressed her hand where it rested against his cheek and said, "You don't have to go right now."

She smiled and climbed up beside him.

MacLeod waited over an hour for Boudicca to come out of the bedroom or for Methos to call him in. Eventually, the silence became more worrisome than the sound of swords clashing would have been. Finally, he surrendered to his concern and let himself quietly into the room.

When he saw Methos and Boudicca sharing the bed, he beneath the covers, she atop them, her hand cupping his cheek, his arm around her waist, he knew there would be some awkward 'morning after' moments when they woke. They had probably wound up where they were out of sheer exhaustion and the need not to be alone rather than any rekindling of their prior amorous relationship, but the fact that they could share their space so intimately, at least for the time being, promised a chance for more. MacLeod knew things wouldn't come easy for them. They had too much history between them and too much baggage to bring into a relationship, but the opportunity was there if they were willing to work for it.

They would both have to decide if they really could wholly forgive each other for all the perceived wrongs. They would have to decide if they could trust each other, if they could bear to risk losing one another again, and if they could bear loving one another knowing that the Game might someday turn them against each other. They would probably even have to work out whether they even actually loved each other. But if they did, and if they were willing to work for it, they had a chance.

Somehow, he thought Alexa would approve.

The End…for now…

But there will be more in this universe.

**Reviews feed the muse.**


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